


De Winter's Soldier

by justanotherStonyfan



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Ableist Language, Amnesia, Amputee Bucky Barnes, Artist Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Conspiracy, Dreams and Nightmares, F/F, Getting Together, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Masturbation, Mild Sexual Content, Other, POV Bucky Barnes, Period Typical Ableism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Steve Rogers, Semi-Reliable Narrator, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, is it ghosts, mild gore mentions, mystery-ish, or is it both, or is it lies, unreliable narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:01:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 90,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27069058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justanotherStonyfan/pseuds/justanotherStonyfan
Summary: In 1948, swept off his feet by an almost-stranger after they meet in Monte Carlo, amnesiac WW2 veteran James Barnes leaves his employer, Howard Stark, and accompanies the mysterious American widower Steven de Winter back to the stately home of 'Midwood,' in England.He soon learns, however, that he is more or less sharing the house with the ghost of Rebecca de Winter, although not all is as it seems, and there are a couple of people who are very,verydispleased by his presence.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Peggy Carter/Angie Martinelli
Comments: 47
Kudos: 35





	1. De Winter's Soldier

**Author's Note:**

> Yep. This is a Rebecca AU. It’ll be different from the Daphne du Maurier book in a lot of ways, including the ending. So it’s Rebecca divergent, but can be read as Canon Compliant - see below. 
> 
> \- If you want a MCU Canon Compliant fic only as far as the end of Captain America the First Avenger, read ONLY until Chapter 13 (Epilogue)  
> \- If you want an MCU Canon Compliant fic up to and including Avengers Endgame, read until Chapter 14 (Prologue) (Yes it’s at the end on purpose)
> 
>  **Please note: I adore Peggy Carter. I needed a Mrs Danvers and I picked Peggy but I PROMISE there’s a good reason I picked her. Don’t let it put you off, all will be explained.**
> 
> Ableist language refers to period-typical attitudes, and Bucky's sense of self. For a spoilery summary, head to the last chapter and read the end notes. This is Un-Proofread, so hit me up on tumblr or in the comments if you notice anything.

__

_Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again. It seemed to me I stood by the iron gate leading to the drive and, for a while, I could not enter, for the way was barred to me. \- Rebecca_, by Daphne du Maurier

***

He dreamed of the house.

It wasn’t so often that the specter of it loomed within the confines of his sleeping hours, but on occasion he found himself there, by the wrought iron of the gates which would lead to the long and winding drive to take them up. The gates were locked, and no answer came from the lodge. The windows seemed sad themselves, and no smoke rose from the chimney, but dreaming brought with it that strange permission born of wanting, and he passed through the locked gates like a ghost instead. 

The drive, once well-kept and tidy, had narrowed from lack of care. Shrubs he’d known well had come to claw across the ground like unfettered creatures, the trees twisting to great depths and heights so as to keep him out, but still he passed by them. Snapped leaves and twisted stems crept, dark, along the way, and he did not catch his feet among them. How long the driveway seemed now. 

But, as surely as it was slow, the manor house itself soon came into view. 

Thorns that might have clawed at foot and ankle were no more hindrance now than the pale moonlight which bathed the property and, through the twisting choke-hold of the ivy and the savage, ungainly sprawl of the nettles, it stood. 

It was, as it had always been, beautiful. Nothing could diminish its beauty - not time nor memory; the jewel of the countryside nestled in its hillsides though the hands of blackened branches reached for it now. Down from the terrace were the lawns, and onward from them, the great silver swathe of a sea more like a looking glass than water. No wind from the west came to squall upon it, no white-hoofed waves came to crash at the shore. The moon hung silent, in a silent sky, above a silent world. Even his footsteps did not fall. 

And then, ahead, the scene seemed to shift. All at once, the house lived now as it had then, something within it yet that stirred the drapes, distant lights lit in those sagging windows. If he were to venture in, there, in the library, the door would stand half-open as they had left it, with his book upon the table beside the music stand. The room would know him, would know them both. A discarded copy of the paper, the little stack of books marked for return to the library in town, the heavy smell of oil and the claylike smell of pigment still in the air. Paint jars with pigment stained water, cushions with the imprint of their heads upon them and an errant smudge of black by the golden trim, the fire still smoldering in the fireplace, and Captain, dear Captain, with his soulful eyes and noble brow, would be sitting by the hearth, his ears pricked when he heard his master’s footsteps, Alpine pretending indifference despite leaning into each show of affection, as Alpine was still wont to do.

Like a mask upon the landscape, a cloud came upon the moon and, with the loss of light went the illusion of life also. No light, no life. Nothing there within the house’s walls - no people, no memory to speak of. No longer a house, but a tomb, it’s windows cracked and its walls blackened.

He would think of the majestic wood, of coffee beneath the chestnut, of the wind-blown lilac in summer and the birds that woke with the sun, but he should not be bitter for the rest of it. He knew that he dreamed, and knew that he would not wake to bitterness in those memories, nor would he fear for what had been and gone. 

~

He wakes, before many moments have passed, in the bare little bedroom hundreds of miles away, a room comforting in its banality. He sighs a moment, stretches himself and turn and, in opening his eyes, finds himself bewildered at the golden sun and gentle sky that seem so different from the dream. Warm breath brushes the back of his neck, salt and the claylike smell of pigment still lingering here though unmoored from the dream. 

The day lies before them, uneventful as always and never long enough to be satiated by each others’ company, and the stillness of it now, the ease, will come to them both. They didn’t know such calm before. 

They will talk of ‘Midwood.’ He will tell his dream, for there’s nothing hidden between them, and they’ll go on. ‘Midwood’ is theirs no longer, for ‘Midwood’ is no more. 

He has developed, since, a great affinity - and talent - for reading aloud. Old stories, the paper - they’d tried the wireless but neither of them could stand such a racket. Much like living in the hotel, their days are better served in the quiet company of each other. 

Once, while his husband had been painting, he read from Wordsworth, of the length of five long years, of hill and sycamore, and remembered reading the same poem one dry summer night at 'Midwood', with the branches of the chestnut whispering high above him and the stars glittering high in a moonless sky, the great stroke of light above his head as his hands pointed upward in wonder. Captain, a strong and silent sentinel, had lain silent beside them until, at the snapping of a twig, come alert, hackles risen. Though doubtless little more than a nocturnal creature, or diurnal one disturbed, or perhaps even old wood sagging to break under its own weight, he had heard, and then, in the absence of such sudden sound, there would be a new silence about the place - emptier, colder than before. He, uneasy for no discernible reason, would realize that the stars gave little light to their surroundings, would notice suddenly the great length of lawn between themselves and the house and, rising to brush the grass from his clothes, would whistle to Captain an set off toward the house, despising himself even as he walked, for the hurry of his feet and his one brief backward glance. 

How strange that such poetry could have brought emotion enough to make him falter as he read, enough for his husband to notice. He would learn his lesson from it, he decided, and he resolved to forego Wordsworth in future, but his husband disagreed. If, so his husband said, that was what he wished, then so be it. But if he were avoiding such things for fear of what he might remind them of, better to do so together, and remember together, and allow the comfort of their shared experience to ease the past. 

He thought of the wondrous rooms at 'Midwood', echoing and vast, rich in decor but somehow still so often cold. He considered the flowers of summer, heavy footsteps following the paths as hushed voices and huddled heads made secret conversation. He thought of meals made for both of them, the cream teas served on the terrace, the afternoons with gin and tonic in the bright sun. By far his favorite, of course, was coffee under the chestnut tree.

There was no need to dwell on it, not now they had this freedom to share, not now their world was quiet and settled. Really, truly, they need never think of 'Midwood' again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem read after the dream is “Tintern Abbey” by Wordsworth or, to give it its full title, “Lines Composed a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey, On Revisiting the Banks of the Wye during a Tour. July 13, 1798”


	2. Monte

_1948_

It’s strange to think what might have happened if Howard Stark hadn’t been quite as much a socialite as he was. Not that he was vulgar about it, not most often. No, his charm was met only by his audacity, but it meant very much that they were dragged left and right at every hotel and party from here to New York in order to keep up. 

It was a kindness, of course - that much he knew. Nobody really needed a man’s man these days, let alone one with one arm - especially not Howard Stark, who already had a man - and one who was fully able at that. Jarvis was kind, and gentle with him in a way that he hadn’t wanted but had learned that he needed, but Jarvis had stayed at home for this particular trip. It wasn’t all that clear why, but it hardy mattered. Howard was a generous man to him, given that there was no-one left to care for an invalid like him now. His sister, Becca, married now and about to have her first child, was the only person he had in the world, and she’d moved to Oregon to be away from the memory of Brooklyn once they’d thought him gone. Howard had taken him everywhere and, while he certainly hadn’t been mingling with the rich and famous or rubbing elbows with the elite, he’d been doing all he could to earn his keep. Howard was treating him as a kind of protégé, and it was starting to make him uncomfortable, not least because Howard had any number of people following him around and vying for his attention. And he didn’t want to be seen as a charity case, even if that was probably what Howard felt about him. 

“I owe a friend,” Howard had told him, when he’d first taken him on, and wasn’t that a turn up for the books? “An anonymous benefactor, if that’s what you want to call it.”

So not just a charity case but a charity case for more than one person. Jesus. 

“We’ll be heading down to breakfast shortly,” Howard said. “Thought I’d take my coffee in the dining room and see if anyone’s around - you can come with, maybe you’ll meet somebody.”

There was no reason to refuse, not really. Pride left long ago, and James could eat for America, so breakfast certainly was a necessary indulgence. 

“Do you need me to take anything?” he asked, and Howard shook his head. 

“Good God, no,” he said, “what are you, a bellhop?”

And he did his best not to balk at the rebuke.

“Come on,” Howard told him, clapping a hand against his right shoulder. “Pin that sucker up and let’s go.”

~

Learning to pin his own sleeve had been one of the first orders of business of recovery, and another had been learning to do every other goddamn thing he needed to do. To begin with, the nurses had trimmed his nails and shaved his face, but he could shave himself by now, and he could take a clipper to his toes. A barber could usually be persuaded to do his right hand for him, whenever he decided the nails were particularly unruly. Aside from his other ablutions, cutting his own food had been next on the list, because he’d be damned if he a needed a millionaire genius inventor to cut his goddamned food for him, although he still struggled with it from time to time. 

“You have better things to do than entertain me,” he said, and Howard laughed. 

“You’ve got it backwards, my friend,” he said, as though they really were friends, and not benefactor and sympathy employee. 

“And how am I meant to do that?” 

Howard smiled, wry and charming as always.

“Learn a few jokes, I’m sure Jarvis’ll teach you some. ‘Til then, enjoy the sun. God knows you’re pale enough.”

There wasn’t much to be said to that, of course. It was true, he was pale, but nobody in Monte Carlo wanted to see half a man in a swimsuit, he was sure. And God forbid he try something as athletic as tennis now. 

Some dame passed by, during Howard’s second mimosa, and touched a hand to his shoulder with a smile. Howard gave her one back and then bobbed his eyebrows once she’d gone about her way.

“Countess,” he said with a grin. “They’re not all stuffy old broads.”

There wasn’t much to be said to that, either. In fact, a great deal of Howard Stark’s chatter wasn’t made to be answered - he talked like he was telling secrets even though he was talking about people everybody ought to know. Still, knowing people was probably half of Howard Stark’s charm - that and pretending to remember them. The only one of them with any experience in these matters was Howard, but it was never more keenly obvious than at moments like these.

“Don’t worry about that Swiss cheese o’yours,” he said, waving a fork in the direction of James’ head, “you’ll pick up names and titles eventually.”

It didn’t sound like an appealing prospect really but, then again, he supposed that would be part of the job.

While they ate and drank, Howard pointed out more people whose appeal seemed to be what they owned or where they vacationed, or how often they’d interacted and at whose garden parties and galas. 

“Well I’ll be,” he said softly, after his eggs, and it turned out that he was staring across the room at a man who couldn’t be much different in age than either of them. “Imagine seeing _him.”_ Howard seemed a little surprised to remember he wasn’t alone a moment later, turning his head back. “Uh,” he said.

The man wasn’t looking in their direction, barely visible through the waiters and patrons of the busy breakfast time.

“Who is he?” he said to Howard, trying not to sound too weary about it. “Another friend of yours?”

“Sure,” Howard answered slowly, contemplative. “You could say that. Knew him in the war. I had no idea he was coming here, though.”

Which was itself a surprise. Howard seemed to know the comings and goings of everyone, in every hotel, on every sunkissed coast. But, in a longish gap in foot traffic around him, this man, blond and broad, sad-eyed and straight-backed in a light colored suit, eating breakfast as though it were a duty, was sitting alone in a beautiful place like this, and Howard wasn’t being forthcoming with information that, for the first time, was actually wanted.

Howard turned back to him and blinked.

“He’s,” he said, as though he couldn’t remember, or weren’t sure he should say. “Mr de Winter,” he said eventually, and then, with a glance back. And then, more to himself. “He doesn’t look well at all.”

“Is he ill?” 

And Howard looked at him for a long few moments then, as though he had forgotten what ‘amnesia’ meant, as though the new stranger’s information must be obvious just because Howard’s whole social circle knew about it.

“His…wife. Died,” he said softly, haltingly, and then they both went back to watching Mr de Winter while Howard continued. “A terrible accident. He adored the creature - can’t get over it.”

James frowned. What a terrible thing to happen by itself, let alone after you survive a war to come home. 

“What was her name?” James found himself asking, and Howard made a soft little choking noise.

“She,” he said, and James looked at him. He was wearing a funny expression. “Rebecca. Her name was Rebecca.”

“Hm,” Bucky said - his sister’s name. 

At least he’d remember it.

They watched Mr de Winter take a bite of his toast and sip from a cup - tea or coffee, but probably coffee. 

It wasn’t so difficult to suppose that one might go through life with sad eyes and a spine pulled straight if they had lost a wife.

“I’ll tell you what,” Howard said suddenly. “Why don’t you go grab that letter I told you about? The one about my friend in England. On my dresser. You know the one?”

Bucky took a breath in through his nose. 

“Alright,” he said, and stood from the table. 

He knew the point, of course - Mr Stark would use it to speak to Mr de Winter. Somehow he always had something he could use to get in on a conversation - sometimes it would be a letter, a photograph, or sometimes a diamond necklace, half a pair of cufflinks; _excuse me but this doesn’t perchance belong to you? No? Ah, well- Say, you’re not a Vanderbilt, are you?_ Even the stub of a movie ticket once - _don’t you just love Cathy Hepburn? Hell of a dame to play cards with, I can tell you!_ And the worst of it all was the stories were all true.

God only knew what Howard planned to do with the letter, but it would help at least the pretense that this whole thing was about a job, and not just about Howard Stark and his newest lost cause.

~

By the time he came back, of course, Mr de Winter was standing at their table, and it was quite clear now just how unwell the man must be. He was naturally pale, that much had been obvious before, but he was almost ashen now he wasn’t sitting in the sunlight, though very handsome despite it, and he seemed to be in a heated discussion with Howard.

“…if you insist on perpetuating-” 

“…spot of bad luck while you-”

They were both saying at once, but then they realized they were no longer alone and broke off, and the smile de Winter gave was polite but tight-lipped. 

“Good morning,” he said, his voice rich and deep in a way that made him sound oddly comforting - like a shroud on a cold afternoon or a warm fire in winter. “I’m. Ah. Steven..de Winter. Howard was, uh.” de Winter glanced at Howard “Howard tells me you’re his new valet?”

“He’s being generous. I’m in training, Sir.” 

The title seemed to give de Winter pause, his mouth had a pinched look about it, and he stared like he’d never seen a scene like this before. It was probably the arm - any stares were usually because of the arm - but, to his credit, de Winter didn’t appear to be doing anything but meeting gazes.

“I’m not much for introductions but-,” de Winter said, and he sounded so open and so honest about it that it came as a surprise. 

“Oh, I’m sure we’re both charmed,” Howard answered, interrupting despite not being the man de Winter was addressing, as though a lost an arm meant he couldn’t speak either. 

“Well I certainly am,” de Winter said softly, without even a glance at Howard - he cut a dashing figure in his light lounge suit and pale blue shirt, his hair swept over his forehead in a flash of gold so dark it was almost brass.

His cheekbones were high and sharp, with long, dark lashes over blue eyes whose shade lightened considerably in the slice of sunlight that lanced across the table, and he furrowed his brow as he moved out of the way of it. He had a full lower lip, and a strong jaw to match it, and there was something young about the age of him - something difficult to place. Not a sadness, perhaps, but a longing - a man who was handsome like the cigarette ads were handsome, but holding something unnameable on the breadth of his broad shoulders. 

“Would you,” Howard said, and then seemed to falter - which Howard had so far never done before in public with someone for as long as they’d been in Europe, “like coffee?”

Which was rich-man shorthand for _‘my man will signal the maître d’hôtel while we sit down.’_ But before any signaling could be done, de Winter himself signaled the nearest member of the hotel staff, and then spoke in French that sounded almost familiar in its hesitancy - fluent in understanding but not quite in pronunciation.

The _maître d’hôtel_ gave him a swift nod and moved off, and de Winter pulled his own chair out from the table.

“There,” he said, “least that’s outta the way,” and Howard gave him a look - perhaps Howard didn’t like the idea of sharing coffee at a time of the day when he’d rather be talking about all the fancy places and famous people he knew - but settled soon enough. “And,” de Winter said, apparently checking with Howard as he spoke, “I don’t believe…we’ve met?”

And in that moment, the urge to beat Howard to an answer was almost unbearable, which was why speaking up came so easily.

“No,” he said, as confidently as he could manage, and at least he still had a right hand with which to shake once he’d put down the letter. De Winter’s grip was firm and warm. “James Barnes.”

De Winter smiled in a way that was too tight, a little pained. Perhaps, in his loss, he missed the feel of a hand in his own, even with so perfunctory a greeting as this. From the way Howard had spoken about whichever accident had tainted his life, perhaps others stayed clear. People had a tendency to do that when they didn’t know what to say to a man who’d suffered loss. 

“The pleasure’s mine,” he said, “Mister Barnes.”

Howard had been lounging in his chair all along, of course but, with that, James and de Winter took their seats. 

~

James could see that de Winter wasn’t as comfortable as he purported to be. He seemed perfectly polite, genial even, but his spine remained stuff and his shoulders remained straight and, though his smiles reached his eyes, each smile was small and distant despite the fullness of his mouth. Genuine fondness, then, albeit with the caveat of grief. Some of the color had returned to his face at least.

“I’d imagine you’re having a gay old time of it,” Howard said. “gallivanting all over the place.”

De Winter gave him an odd look, as though it were impertinent of him to ask, but Howard didn’t balk - Howard never did, of course - and leaned back in his chair a moment later, but James was halfway to mortified already. Gallivanting? After becoming a widower? Surely there was a better word to use than that.

“I’m certainly getting all over the place,” he said softly. “But I can’t say it’s much fun, you know what they take me for.”

“Oh pish,” Howard answered. “Where’ve you done, Europe? The Americas?” 

“About time I saw more of Europe, isn’t it?” de Winter answered. “Didn’t get to see much of anything the last time I was passing through.”

Howard laughed like this was some hilarious anecdote, but de Winter’s pinched expression didn’t change.

“Oh, cheer up, Steve-o,” Howard told him. “You’re in Monte!”

De Winter raised one eyebrow impressively high.

“Well,” Howard continued, undeterred, “people’d give their _eyes_ for the opportunity, ca-”

“That’d defeat the point, wouldn’t it?” de Winter interjected sharply, a deliberate intercession, and James saw Howard’s eyebrows rise in response, though he didn’t seem deterred. 

In fact, he lifted his fingers from the tabletop as though to placate, almost an apology.

“What is it you do?” James asked, in an attempt to circumvent whatever disaster of conversation seemed to be approaching - it was the first thing he’d really said so far, but _that_ made Howard freeze alright, made his gaze slide across to de Winter as though he hadn’t seen him before. 

James knew instantly that he’d put his foot in it. 

“Not a lot,” de Winter answered before James could apologize, apparently less offended by the question than Howard.

He spoke to James with a greater gentleness than he gave Howard, and James couldn’t be sure whether it was courtesy or pity. De Winter knew Howard - who could be brusque or crass or both of those things with a veneer of charm all at once - but didn’t know James. Still, Howard wasn’t missing an arm, and more than one person had spoken to James like his lost arm had somehow taken his hearing with it, or his brain. 

“Somehow my name got well known during the war, and now I go where they want me and shake hands with rows of people whose faces I haven’t time for,” de Winter continued, and looked at Howard. “I’m sure you know all about that.”

So de Winter served. Came out of it better than James had, of course, but they all bore their own scars - some visible, some invisible. Still, a man of health and stature like de Winter, would have been hard to dodge the draft. Although, if he ran in Howard’s social circle, it was more likely he’d come from money, which would have made him an officer.

“Not me, pal,” Howard answered, raising a hand to fend him off. “I claim a bad stomach and head to the bar, you know me.”

“Vaguely,” de Winter answered. “Although I can’t fault your methods, much as I’d like to.”

James narrowed his eyes. Something was off between the two of them, perhaps not quite a grudge but something similar, and he couldn’t put his finger on what it might be. It sounded perfectly friendly enough, but he didn’t know until Howard laughed softly that it must have been meant as a joke. Some sort of rivalry, perhaps - a girlfriend who’d left one for the other, or a card game with stakes higher than they ought to have been.

The coffee arrived shortly thereafter, and the conversation mainly lulled into the boring subjects that polite conversation usually revolved around. Wasn’t Monte wonderful this time of year, how nice the weather was, didn’t Europe shine like a jewel in certain places. It was all supremely bland, but it wasn’t until Howard said something untoward about appearance that de Winter had had his fill. 

“All this time in the clothing capitals of the world and here you are looking like a reverend on the lawn for cricket,” Howard said, following some discussion of changing fashions. “Your man oughta do a better job of sending you down to breakfast dressed ready for sermon.”

And, while James could see what Howard meant - a light suit with crisp shirt gave him the air of someone too starched for fun, too uptight for enjoyment beyond an easy afternoon in the sun; turn his shirt black and the only thing missing would be the clerical collar - James couldn’t help but feel it was frightfully insensitive of him to say so. All he knew of de Winter was that he was paraded around for the brass and that his wife had died in an accident, and here Howard was insulting his dress. James could remember staring at his shirts on some hospital bed or somesuch, empty on the left hand side, baffled at the prospect of trying to dress when all he wanted was to hide beneath his coverlet for the rest of eternity. And, while those things were ridiculous, of course, while those things had passed for the most part, James couldn’t help but think a man like Howard, with no fewer than two men to tend him depending on his location, ought to have more tact than to jibe at someone so obviously tense with private consternation.

“I don’t have a _man,”_ de Winter answered, much more coldly than he’d spoken a moment before, in a way that suggested Howard ought to know it by now, “perhaps _you_ might like to take time out from your own gallivanting and do it _for_ me.”

Or, perhaps, it was just that de Winter knew Howard had two valets. Either way, of course, Howard wasn’t offended for a moment. He cocked his head with a wry smile and a raised eyebrow. 

“You know, if you want me in your suite in the mornings, there are easier ways to get me there-”

But de Winter stood abruptly, two spots of color on his high cheekbones. 

“Maybe we’ll see each other on the grounds before I leave for Sospel. Until then. Mr Barnes,” he said politely, and then, somehow colder despite not changing a thing about it, _“Howard.”_

And then he turned from the table and left, winding his way back across the dining hall to duck out of sight. For someone so tall and broad in the shoulders he seemed to be able to make himself quite unobtrusive, and James looked at Howard once he lost sight of de Winter. 

“Well,” Howard said, wincing. “That went one hell of a lot better than I thought it might, despite appearances. Although that was unkind of me, I’ll admit.”

James didn’t say anything. In fact, he was hoping he didn’t have to say anything at all, but then Howard looked straight at him. 

“I was baiting him, you know,” he said, uncharacteristically trite. “He’s not always like that. He’s got a hot temper but he’s not a bad man.”

“Right,” James said, because what else was he meant to say? 

“Don’t worry about him, he’s a pussycat with the right person.”

James just looked at him, unsure why this was relevant.

“Here, I want you to like him,” Howard continued, and James frowned a little, helpless.

“Alright?” he said, and Howard harrumphed at him.

“You’re not going to make much of a man’s man if you can’t make yourself charming,” he said, and James just looked at him - men’s men didn’t answer back, of course. “Go on, you look like you’re trying to swallow a hive of live bees, out with it?” 

“Why should I like him?” James asked, baffled. “I’m your man, aren’t I, what difference is it if I like him or not?”

Howard’s brow came down over his eyes, mouth twisting, moustache twisting with it. 

“It’s important to _me_ that you like him,” he said, and James felt himself frown too. “He’s a good man and I’d like it if you gave him a chance.”

James tried to figure out what to say in response. He could be polite to anyone, it was easy enough, and in fact he quite liked de Winter, but why on earth should it be so vital to Howard? 

“You know I shouldn’t like it if you acted like a servant,” Howard was saying, “that’s not what I’m after - you’re to be a companion, James, a confidante. No? A man like him, you’d smile at his jokes over whiskey, you’d be by him to hear his anxieties - you’d be his _man_.”

“I understand all that,” James said, “but I can’t see why I’m to like _him_ when it’s to _you_ I’m to hand a whiskey, I can’t figure out what duty it is of mine to befriend him just because he’s a friend of yours. I don’t understand.”

He tried to put as much into that as he could - _I want to learn it right_ \- and Howard narrowed his eyes a little. 

“It’s just he’s a friend of mine,” he said. “You’re a friend of mine, aren’t you? I want you to like him as I do, I want for my friends to all be friends.”

James hadn’t any idea what to say to that either. 

“I see,” he said. 

Howard wrinkled his nose.

“Well,” he said, waving James off. “It makes no mind, we’ll be seeing more of him, I’m sure, and you’ll grow to like him.”

James thought to himself, _if that’s how you’d like it,_ because what was it to him? What was it to Howard, even? _Here’s your whiskey, Steven, what a funny joke Steven has made._ If indeed any other man would want his valet to call him by his first name and not just address him as ‘Sir.’ De Winter seemed like a nice sort of chap, if vexed somehow.

“Let’s head out onto the promenade,” Howard said, throwing his napkin at his plate before he stood, signaling and end to it. “I feel like a constitutional.”

James did his best to put his napkin down neatly on the table, and stood up to follow.

~

That evening, James answered the door of their suite to the lift-boy, who had messages. James expected that it would all be for Howard but, instead, the message was addressed to him.

 _Please forgive my rudeness,_ it said in handwritten scrawl on cream paper, with no opening, no signature.

“Any answer, Sir?” the lift-boy asked, and James shook his head.

“No,” he said. “No answer.”

When the lift-boy had gone, James put the note in his pocket, and did his best to ignore how heavy that little piece of paper felt in his pocket.

***

Howard had a penchant for many things, one of which was the type of food that cost an unnecessary amount of money from places that advertised themselves as the best purely because they were “authentic.” The advantage to such indulgences was that it was possible to find tiny little ice-cream parlors, or local eateries that were sequestered-away amongst the mismatched buildings on shorelines and back-streets. The _dis_ advantage was that, sometimes, trusting the ‘authentic’ local food over hotel dining meant that one received a rather nasty bout of ‘authentic’ food poisoning to go with one’s experience.

Howard, pale and sweating, sent James away the next morning. 

“Oysters,” he muttered, smiling through a wince as he joked. “You might’ve warned me off!”

James wasn’t much for oysters himself and, once the doctor’d been up to see Howard, there wasn’t much else for him to do. 

“Afraid I won’t be much fun for a few days, pal,” he said, “though you’re welcome to play at the casinos on my credit if you feel like it.”

James did not feel like it. 

Once he was sure Howard wouldn’t need him (and he wouldn’t; what Howard needed now was plenty to drink and fast access to a bathroom), he agreed to be set off by himself. He wouldn’t go far, of course - couldn’t really - and he loathed the thought of spending Howard’s money for his own entertainment. Howard had put him up and paid for treatment and clothed him an employed him, there wasn’t a cat in hell’s chance he’d wander off to a casino and fritter anything away. 

He could follow the beach front, perhaps, try and find the little ice-cream parlour again. He might see if he could polish up his French, perhaps pick up a little Monégasque. He might watch the boats out on the water, or find a book shop, or perhaps take a walk on one of the scenic paths in and around Monte. 

The first order of business would be lunch, of course. He was early for the usual lunching hour and expected to be mostly alone in the dining hall, for few patrons of the hotel dined before one. But, instead, he found that there was one more occupant in the mostly-empty place. Steven de Winter sat in the same place he’d been sitting the day before, probably taking lunch early so as to avoid being caught by Howard again. James hadn’t seen him at lunch or dinner the previous day, presumably for the same reason, but hadn’t seen de Winter in time to avoid him. Instead he’d been marveling at the empty place, distracted by the vastness of it once it was devoid of people. 

He knew he couldn’t possibly excuse Howard’s behavior - it wouldn’t do to make an apology for his employer - but neither could he quite face a brazen greeting when de Winter had been so obviously irritated the day before. As it was, he continued for the nearest table, doing his best to hold up his head and keep back his shoulders, and immediately paid for his gaucherie by knocking over a vase of pink flowers set atop the table - carnations and camelias - the water for which ran all over the cloth, some even making it down to his lap. 

Frozen in disbelief, he held up his hand and stared at what he’d done. The maître d’hôtel was far across the other side of the hall and hadn’t seen but, to James’ surprise a moment later, de Winter appeared beside him, brushing at the tablecloth with his napkin. 

“Here, you can’t sit here like this at a wet tablecloth,” he was saying brusquely. “Stand up, let’s get this sorted.”

With de Winter’s presence, the maître d’hôtel had noticed something amiss and was coming to the rescue, but James could feel color rising in his cheeks.

“Please, don’t worry about me,” he said, but de Winter wouldn’t hear of it and, as the maître d’hôtel started to sort out the vase and the tablecloth, de Winter put out a hand.

“Sorry, can you put another place at my table?” he said. “Mr Barnes will dine with me. You will dine with me, won’t you?”

The waiter nodded, and set off to comply, but James knew this for politeness, for a gesture of reconciliation for whatever slight he perceived that he’d made the day before, and James couldn’t be beholden to him for that, especially when the mess was his own fault.

“Please, don’t bother yourself with it,” he said.

“Why?” de Winter answered, and James felt a little helpless in the face of such a direct question.

“Because,” he said eventually, “there’s no need for you to be polite about it, I’m perfectly able to wipe the cloth down and use it if-”

“No, no,” de Winter answered. “Not at all, I wasn’t being polite. I’d’ve asked you to sit with me for lunch even if you hadn’t given the poor vase what-for.” And for a moment there was silence. “You don’t believe me, huh?” he said, and smiled another of those sad smiles. “Well never mind. We’re- We’re here now, please say you’ll sit with me for lunch? You don’t even have to talk to me if you don’t feel like it.”

And, because James didn’t have any other excuse to give to him, they sat down together. De Winter let him peruse the menu at his own pace and continued to eat his own meal like nothing unusual had happened. 

“Where’s Howard?” he asked at one point, and James shook his head minutely. 

He’d chosen the fish, for it wasn’t too difficult to break apart with only a fork, and de Winter had caught him with his mouth full.

“Bad oysters,” he said, and then immediately regretted it. “That is-”

De Winter made a noise of apparent disgust, but then gave a grimace that showed it to be sympathy instead.

“Bad luck,” he said quietly. “You got my note, though? I really did mean my apology for yesterday. I’m not as bad-mannered as I used to be, but it was awful rude of me.”

“You weren’t rude,” James said softly. “You know Howard, I’m sure you know a little thing like that can’t hurt him.”

De Winter laughed.

“Well,” he said. “I certainly know him well enough to remember he’s like that mostly when he likes you. You don’t get nearly so much talking out of him if he don’t.”

James considered his voice for a moment. It was rich and deep but something tugged at the back of his mind with it.

“Say, where are you from?” he said quietly. “If you don’t object to my asking.”

“Not at all,” de Winter answered. “I was New York raised.”

James felt his eyebrows raise.

“No foolin’?” he asked, forgetting himself immediately, though it seemed to amuse de Winter. 

“Yeah, no foolin’.” But his smile seemed to fade into something else - curiosity, but with something else behind it. “What about you?”

“Yeah, me too,” James told him. “Me too, I was raised in New York but I…”

He found it suddenly difficult to look at de Winter, felt the smile slip off his own face. 

“I don’t remember nothin’,” he said, and there was a long silence. 

“Not at all?” de Winter said, gentle, and James shook his head. 

“Nah, I…I know I was in the war. I know something happened. I remember glimpses - my olive drab, a dirty trench. I know a couple places in my home town, too, but it’s…I was captured, see.”

De Winter, when James dared look, had gone pale. 

“Oh?” he said, in a remarkable approximation of casual interest, but James could see the stiffness in his shoulders, the set of his jaw, but he seemed concerned rather than discouraging.

James did not know how he knew the difference.

“Don’t remember much of that, either. Howard says I lost my arm in it,” he said, and moved what was left of his shoulder a little. De Winter didn’t look at the shoulder, he stared straight at James’ eyes. “All I know is I woke up in a hospital in London and Howard was there by my bedside. He told me my name and my former occupation, and said we’d been friends in the war - which’d been over for a good year and a bit by then. And so here I am.”

De Winter didn’t say anything to that, cutlery held still above his plate.

“I’m sorry,” he said eventually, in the measured tone of a man who’d seen a thousand men like James. 

“What about you, you served?”

“I,” de Winter said, and he looked down at his plate again, began to move his hands once more. “I went where they sent me. Special operations. I had a team who meant the world to me. There was an incident and then after…I’m a poster boy now. I mean I guess I always was but...” De Winter shook his head, staring at his meal. 

“You lose someone?” James asked after a few moments, and de Winter’s head came up him for a moment, not defensive as James feared he might be, not dismissive or angry. 

“Didn’t we all?” he said eventually.

After that, de Winter changed the subject entirely, probably to avoid talking about the war. James couldn’t blame him - what here remembered for himself came only in fits and starts, and led to nightmares he couldn’t decipher. And so de Winter asked instead if he’d been with Howard long. 

“Not so long,” he said, “only for six months or so. I’m good enough at what I’m doing that I don’t upset him overmuch, I just have to watch what I’m doing. It’s a generosity, I know that-”

“I’d like to let you know I highly doubt that it’s charity, if that’s what you mean,” de Winter answered. “I mean, he is a generous guy, but he wouldn’t keep you close like he does unless he cared about you.”

“I only got his word on that, pal,” Jams answered, and then wanted to swallow his tongue - had he really just called Mr de Winter _’pal!?’_

But de Winter didn’t seem to mind. 

“So tell me about the places he takes you,” he said. “What’s it like being Howard Stark’s man?”

~

It was during a lull in conversation much later, as de Winter sighed in satisfaction upon reaching the end of his coffee, that James realized how loud the place had become about them. Where they’d been alone and in silence, he came to recognize the cacophony of voices and cutlery on crockery for a full dining hall and, shocked, looked towards the clock that sat above the entrance. 

It read two in the afternoon.

“My God,” he said softly. “I must apologize, I had no idea the hour was getting so late-”

“What?” de Winter asked, and followed his gaze, eyebrows lifting. “Oh! Well don’t worry about that, I was having a gay old time talkin’ to you, it don’t make no mind to me,” and he looked up with a broad, bright smile, so different from the one he’d worn at breakfast yesterday. 

“I’ve taken up your whole afternoon,” James answered, and de Winter scoffed. 

“You’ve done no such thing unless I’ve done the same to you - we were talking, weren’t we?”

“I was talking,” James answered. “Almost the whole time, you couldn’t get a word in edgeways-”

De Winter’s hand, big and dry and warm, settled over James’ on the table cloth, just for a moment.

“I didn’t want to get a word in, I was listening to you. That’s why I asked you questions about it,” and then his hand withdrew, probably much faster than it felt to James. “Anyhow, I thought I might go to the square today,” de Winter said. “I thought about heading on to Sospel this evening - I was gonna go last night originally - but I’m being fickle about it, and selfish, I guess.”

“How’s it selfish not to go to Sospel?” James asked. 

De Winter only smiled, but not so brightly now.

“No, no,” he said, and his voice was so deep and so rich it was strange to hear that it could be so gentle. “I didn’t mean it’s selfish of me to leave.”

James stared at him for a moment. It was unlikely that a man as well-groomed and attractive as Steven de Winter could possibly mean what it sounded like in that moment, but James could not think of any explanation, pinned by the look in de Winter’s eyes. 

“Do you want to come to the square with me? I sketch a little in my spare time, and I’d be real glad of the company, perhaps you’d like to see a little of Monaco at your own pace?”

James didn’t know how to answer. 

“You don’t have to entertain me or nothing, I’m happy to take you around because I want to. Because _I_ want to.”

And it seemed that he wouldn’t listen to protest about it. 

When they left the table, James thought again of how little of the world he knew - he knew himself like anyone else might do. He knew that he liked swing music, that he enjoyed a late night walk, that chocolate souffle on the menu made his mouth water. But he didn’t know what street he’d lived on, didn’t know what his best friend’s name was, didn’t know where he’d served or how he’d come to lose almost all memory of _before._ Howard liked to say it was before he died, and sometimes his man Jarvis would say ‘before you fell,’ but it wasn’t like that for James. He remembered no sudden end, no weightless tumble. For James, Sergeant Barnes was someone he’d never met, a life he hadn’t lived. And, with all his questions about past friends met with blank stares and furtive looks from his new ones, he suspected the good Sergeant wasn’t much missed, either. 

As the maître d’hôtel rushed forward, James wondered if he could convince Howard to tell him a little more. He knew that it was bad for him. Every doctor he’d encountered since the blurry dark and green of the first few weeks of his recovery had said the same thing - they’d either come back or they wouldn’t, but trying to pull them forward before had only brought pain, confusion, and setbacks. But now that he was keeping company with Mr de Winter, instead of tending to Howard Stark, the staff of the hotel seemed to suddenly see him where he must have been nigh invisible before. 

It had been that way when Howard had helped him venture out into the world, of course. Whatever hospital he’d been sequestered away in had been just as bad for his health as probing at dreams in the hopes that they’d bring memories, but Howard had kept him safe in riverside abodes and private ‘cottages’ bigger, James thought, than anything he must have lived in up until now. Howard knew someone everywhere, and had almost as many places to stay, but everyone at those places aside from Howard himself - and Jarvis, on the occasions when Jarvis joined them - saw James as little more than part of the staff. But even the lift-boy seemed to give him more of a smile as they passed now, just for having walked next to de Winter. 

It was like Howard’s tailor, Burns, he thought, remembering the simpering man who’d detailed measurements and preferences as though he were addressing royalty. 

“What’s wrong?” de Winter said, his hand out in front of him as the doorman opened the door. “You look like something’s- Are you annoyed?”

James blinked a little in the afternoon sun and they walked down the sidewalk together as he shook his head. 

“I’m just thinking,” he said, “about Howard’s tailor in London.”

And he told de Winter the story of Burns, whose upright manner had vanished once Howard had no longer been in the shop, replaced instead by an air of cloying sympathy. Howard had ordered three new suits, and Burns must have been grateful for it, for he quickly found a hundred pounds that he tried to hand over ‘for continued business, as we are most grateful for Mr Stark’s business.’ James had refused it, strangely unnerved by the idea, feeling about the same as he thought he might if he’d seen someone find a wallet and been offered half the contents to keep quiet instead of turning the whole thing in to the police. 

“You didn’t take it?”

James had refused outright. And Burns’ indifference had been almost as telling as his simpering. 

“He told me I could come back the next time I had a day off and have a weskit if I fancied,” James answered. “As a sort of commission.” 

He shook his head, suppressing a shiver. 

“And that’s not something you’d want?” de Winter asked. 

“I don’t know where I come from,” James answered. “I don’t remember my parents or my neighborhood, or the places I went to school or worship, but I know for certain a weskit from a Savile Row tailor that I didn’t pay for ain’t justifiable no matter which way you look at it. I was mortified.”

James expected him to laugh, or poke fun, but de Winter was watching him carefully when he dared to glance at him. 

“I think you might not be the right man for this job,” he said instead, and James looked at him purposefully then.

“Because I didn't take the offer?”

“No!” de Winter said, and then he chuckled. “Golly, no. But Howard doesn’t really seem like your kinda fella. You thought about the long term at all?”

James shook his head and went back to watching the way ahead. 

“I only recently started bein’ a human being again,” he said. “From what I understand, there weren’t too many people to miss me in the first place, and Mr Stark pays me well enough. That’s as much of a plan for the future as I’ve got at present.”

And when he glanced at de Winter again, he looked almost sad - that rueful smile, his eyes showing something James couldn’t decipher.

“Well you wanna be careful,” de Winter told him. “What I mean is, you’re too good a fella for the job Howard’s given you. Jarvis, I’ve met him, he’s a helluva good man too, doesn’t take to that kind of stuff either. But he makes it seem like just as much an insult as it feels, he gives as good as he gets.”

“And you think I won’t?” 

“I think there’ll be plenty of Burns the Tailors. They’ll all be just as toady with their ‘commissions’ and it’d be a shame for someone…for a man such as you to wind up as phony as they are.”

And Barnes looked at him.

De Winter was very pale most of the time, and James wondered if it was the sun putting color on his cheeks. He was a very good-looking man regardless, but surely a compliment from someone like de Winter wasn't indicative of anything more than politeness – he was up in Howard's circle, not down in James'. 

And yet, he spoke quietly, with a smile at the corner of his mouth that James hadn't seen while they'd been in Howard's presence. 

It was, all in all, a pleasant afternoon. Just as he said he would, de Winter drove them to the square, but there was too much of a breeze for him to sketch, so he said, and so instead they drove around the streets. The air was clear, the sky was blue, and clouds that were rippled with sea air drifted overhead. James felt different in the front passenger seat of de Winter's car – he felt older, less aware of the years he missed. He didn't feel shabby or inexperienced with de Winter in his pale lounge suit beside him, and they drove past the yachts that Howard's friends sailed, past the restaurants where they dined. 

He felt freer beside de Winter than he'd felt by Howard just by virtue of being _seen_ by de Winter. This wasn't a man who took on the responsibility of teaching him, who was cautious beyond measure but still pretended he was a whole human being. De Winter seemed to extend his politeness all the way into seeing James as an appreciated acquaintance, and they drove side by side. James watched him as they went, the wind in his hair and the trees flashing by, the sun on the water. He felt he was in the presence of a friend, almost, felt that de Winter could be at the same level of understanding. Where Howard was noise and party, de Winter was poise and quiet. He felt of this man, far more than Howard, that he might be someone known to him.

The wind in his own hair was a welcome change from the somber stateliness, and his suit was functional but any qualms he'd had about the way he dressed or how he held himself seemed to fade into nothing. Steven de Winter listened to him, and asked him questions about himself, and had driven him to the square hoping to share a coffee with him.

Howard knew endless names and faces, and James struggled with them all, but de Winter would be different. De Winter would be _his_ name to know, _his_ face to recognize

The car came to a stop, eventually, high up over Monaco. They had come to a summit, and could go no further and, though de Winter opened the door for him, they stood in silence. Below them stretched a huge, open bay of clear blue water, boats like children's toys on the water. The trees nestled close on the hillsides seemed unreal to him, small and close like distant brush, carefully manicured hedges instead of wild trees, and the small, white houses dotted the bay like the sunlight that sparkled on the water. The whole place seemed to glitter.

James turned to look at him to find that de Winter's face was no longer open, he no longer smiled. Something had changed, and James felt a heaviness between them.

“Have you been here before?” he said, all too aware of how severe a silence could feel, and he had tried for an ease of tone, to sound casual in his question.

De Winter looked at him blankly as he spoke, and James realized suddenly that he must be wrong after all. Though the afternoon had been wonderful, de Winter's mind must be elsewhere. James had heard of it, of course – of trances and hypnoses – and he'd had nightmares himself, had spent hours lost in thought and fragmented memory.

“Should we head back?” James asked, as casually as he could, but he knew – for he could hear it in his own voice – that his attempt at nonchalance had failed. 

Anyone would hear it, de Winter certainly could, and the blankness vanished instantly, replaced by something dark, by pain. 

“I'm sorry,” he said, his voice low. “I'm sorry, I...” He shook his head. “I shouldn't have brought you here, we shouldn't have come.”

He turned away, and walked back to the car, and so James followed him, heart sinking. So much for the afternoon then, he supposed. De Winter must really just have been humoring him after all. 

James got into the car, too, and waited for de Winter to start the journey back but, instead, de Winter turned in his seat and grasped James' thigh.

“I planned to see this place before,” he said. “With...with someone else. But I shouldn't have brought you here, I should have known it'd... I shouldn't have pulled you into it. Can you forgive me?”

And James looked at him, trying to work him out. 

“Forgive you?” he said slowly. “Mr de Winter-”

“Oh, James,” de Winter answered. “Don't call me that, you know my name, why not use it?”

“Steven,” James said hesitantly. “Why should I-”

“You,” de Winter said, pained, but he shook his head, began to lean away. “Alright. And I know,” he said wretchedly. “I know I shouldn't ask you to but I-”

“No, why should I _need_ to?” James clarified, and de Winter took a long, deep breath. 

“Oh,” he said on a sigh. “Oh. Well I...I...”

And suddenly James thought he understood.

“Wait,” he said, and if he'd had a left hand, he might've covered de Winter's own with it. “I don't mean to intrude but...did you mean someday to bring your wife?” 

And de Winter's mouth dropped open, his brow furrowing. More than anything else, he looked shocked, hurt. And then he pressed his lips together and turned his head away.

“My wife,” he said, but then he looked out at the sparkling bay. “My wife.” He turned his head after a time and looked at James. “Can you forgive me?”

James tilted his head, unsure of what perceived slight this must be.

“Can I forgive you that you mourn someone you loved?” he asked, but de Winter shook his head.

“Can you forgive me that I brought you, of all people, to such a place, despite my knowing how I felt about it? Or at the very least, despite the fact that I ought to have known?”

James went to speak, to call him by name and then remembered he'd been asked to use a different one.

“Steven,” he said, less unsure about using it the more he tasted it in his mouth – like de Winter's voice had been a comfort to him, the name settled familiarly on his tongue, a comfort. He could stand, he thought, to say this name often. If he'd known de Winter any longer than a day, he might have been so bold as to rest his own hand on de Winter's thigh in return. “I can't see that you've done anything that needs forgiveness, although you have mine if you feel you need it.”

De Winter sighed again, a release of tension this time, and sagged in the driver's seat, staring at him.

“I think maybe we _should_ go back,” he said softly, and withdrew his hand a moment later. “I've kept you all to myself today.”

“I don't mind,” James told him, before he thought not to, and de Winter waited for a few moments. 

“I've enjoyed today,” he said. “Really, I have. Would you dine with me this evening? You...” And here he visibly steeled himself. “You can bring Howard?”

“Howard will be ill with food poisoning for a few days yet,” James answered, and de Winter didn't bother hiding his relief then. 

“Well I hope he feels better soon,” he said, “but I shan't be too disappointed, I suspect he won't be either. Was it...Howard who told you about my...?”

“He mentioned she'd been killed in an accident,” James answered, feeling that perhaps it was best not to beat about the bush on a matter like this. 

“Hm,” de Winter answered. “I think I'd better speak to him about it all at some point.”

“Oh please,” James said, “don't-” but de Winter's head turned sharply to regard him, and he felt reprimanded enough for it. 

“I won't mention you,” de Winter said. “Don't worry about that. But Howard should know better than to-” but here he cut himself off and took another steadying breath. “I'm not usually this quick to anger,” he said. And then passed a hand over his eyes. “That's not true – I'm always this quick to anger, but I’m workin’ on it, I promise. Look, let's not give it any more mind, James, let's just. Can we forget this happened? Can we start over, I don't want any of this to...to...”

James wished he could do something about de Winter's state of distress about it, but couldn't think of a thing to say. 

“I've made a terrible mess of such a lovely day,” de Winter said softly. “Here, there's a scarf in the glove compartment, help yourself – the evening's getting later and I don't want you catching cold.”

James did as de Winter suggested, still unsure of his place, and found too a slim book of poetry. As he peered at the title, _Of Man For Man_ , written in neat capitals by hand.

“You can borrow that, if you'd like,” he said softly, just enough to be heard over the rushing-by of Monte. “Although don't feel obligated. It's in a few different languages, of course but...”

James flipped through the pages and saw that they were all handwritten. They weren’t originals - James caught a name or two, poets that he recognized. It would be nice, he thought, to have something of de Winter's to borrow, but something so precious as a handwritten book?

The car began to wind its way back down the mountain, and he began to speak then of artists – painters, sculptors, printmakers, techniques and artistic periods. He spoke of oil paintings and museums that he hoped to visit, of landmarks and famed treasures that he hoped he might one day get to see. 

“Where I,” he said, “at Midwood,” and the small falter he gave didn't strike James as anything strange back then, “there are portraits – real old ones – but the _architecture_ , oh you should see it. And the sculptures in the gard- There's a rose garden, and rhododendrons all the way up the side of the building, and...”

He spoke of all the different plants that grew in all the different places, the rooms adorned with artistry and luscious décor. He talked about a great, tall chestnut tree that offered shade from sun and shelter from rain, and about how the dog would run across the lawn, how there was no better place for lunch at Midwood than under the old chestnut tree.

Dusk had fallen around them as they drove, and James found himself strangely put out by the clamor of voices as they came back onto bustling streets. Lights were lit, people had begun to move about in preparation for spending the evening out, and here was James about to end a day well-spent. De Winter had invited him to dine but he wasn't sure just what that meant. He didn't doubt, at all, that de Winter was being polite, even that de Winter enjoyed his company. But the man's turn of phrase could be odd, his behavior unpredictable. There was something James didn't know of him – a lot that James didn't know of him – but he was slowly becoming aware of how much he enjoyed being with de Winter. 

What a fool he thought himself then, of course – he'd not known the man even a day. And yet it was as though de Winter were a brother he'd never had, a friend whose adventures were forgotten. It was possible, of course, that he'd even served with the man for all he knew – it wouldn't be beyond the realms of possibility. Certainly, he might have heard of him, if he'd been well-known in the war James himself had fought. 

He didn't dare yet say it, barely dared think it, but...Some of de Winter's looks, some of his phrasing...What had he meant, at the top of the summit, by _'you of all people?_ ' Or, when he spoke about Burns the tailor, and had said _'a man such as you'_ when they'd talked about Burns the tailor? James didn't dare hope for reciprocation of a feeling he was studiously ignoring himself but, if he'd allowed it, if he'd allowed his heart to feel it, he would have recognized the feeling instantly. 

He wanted to see more of de Winter – not as a friend of Howard's. Perhaps not even as a _friend_ of his own.

All too soon, they came to the hotel. 

“Here, I must put away the car,” de Winter told him. “But I'll see you tonight, won't I? You'll come downstairs and dine with me in the dining hall?” 

“Of course,” James answered, and they stared at each other for a moment in silence, as though waiting. 

But it couldn't last. The doorman stepped down to the car, and de Winter startled suddenly, as did James in reaction.

“Oh,” he said “Well then. Until this evening.” 

And de Winter nodded, lifted one hand from the steering wheel, and then put it back as though he'd never lifted it at all. 

“Until tonight,” he nodded. 

And James got out of de Winter's car, and did his best not to stare after it as it ran the length of the hotel and turned a corner, out of sight. 

It wasn't until he had made it all the way back to the room, book in hand, that he remembered he wore de Winter's scarf, too, and he unwrapped it slowly, before Howard could see. 

At a quarter to six that evening, another note came addressed to him.

_James,  
how I wish I had no need to write this note to you, but I have  
been called away. I will not be present for dinner this evening,  
as we had agreed. You've already forgiven more than I deserve  
today, but if you could find it in you to do so again, I will make  
it up to you with dinner tomorrow, when I should be back from  
Sospel. I feel wretched about it, truly, but should very much like  
to see you again if you're agreeable. I anxiously await your reply.  
Steven. _

James had not known how light the feeling in him had been until that moment, until it tumbled down again as a cloud turned to rain, and he stared at the note in his hand despondently. A moment later, he realized just how ridiculous a response that must be – something must have happened for de Winter to leave so suddenly, or else James had felt far more pass between them than de Winter.

Regardless, it wouldn't do to sulk in the doorway, and, after all, de Winter did mean to see him tomorrow. 

“Is there an answer, Sir?” the lift-boy asked, and James stared at the words a moment longer, swallowing the lump in his throat, quashing the disappointment in his chest.

_...very much like to see you again if you're agreeable. I anxiously await your reply._

“Yes,” James said. “Please tell Mr de Winter tomorrow's invitation is gladly accepted.”

And the lift-boy left to relay the message – a proper message, which James had sent. His very own missive to Steven de Winter. 

When he closed the door, Howard stirred a little.

“Mh, back already?” he said. “You've only been out the whole day.”

James felt himself blush but, before he could stammer out an explanation, Howard waved a hand.

“I'm kiddin', pal,” he said. “Where'd you go, spend any of my moolah?” 

“I,” James answered. “I saw some of Monaco. Just as you said.”

“And?” Howard answered. “Did you like it?”

James could, honestly, not remember very much of it at all, besides the flashing of colors behind de Winter's head.

“I was enchanted,” he said, because he could say as much in truth, and Howard beamed, though he still seemed a little green about the gills.

“Great!” he said. “After tomorrow I might be well enough to go with you, maybe _you_ can show _me_ around some!”

James did his best to smile, to keep up with the joke. The truth was, he hadn't a clue what he'd do tomorrow, with neither Howard nor Steven de Winter to guide him. And he had the sudden traitorous thought that he'd choose de Winter over Howard if he could. 

He dismissed such a thought immediately – de Winter was entertaining him, but Howard paid his wage. 

“I fear I'm not going to be much fun tonight, though,” Howard continued, and James shook his head.

“Don't worry,” he said. “I'll find something to do.”

Howard nodded, and settled back against the headboard of his bed. 

“Sure,” he said. 

~

Later, when Howard was asleep once more and James was, himself, in bed in his own room of their suite, he opened the book de Winter had lent him. 

It seemed to be an anthology of poetry, and James opened it in the middle out of curiosity. 

He spoke French, of course – not that he remembered learning – but he understood Spanish, partly, also. 

_Por encontrar un beso tuyo,_ read the title, by Federico García Lorca. And he deciphered it, line by line, until the last stanza, his face heating, hiding the page against his chest after, though he was alone in the room. _Y por besar tus muslos castos,/¿qué daría yo? /(Cristal de rosa primitiva,/sedimento de sol.)_

_And to kiss your pure thighs_  
_what would I give?_  
_Raw rose crystal_  
_sediment of the sun_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A ‘weskit’ is a vest or waistcoat.
> 
> The Poems in the handwritten Volume:
> 
> \- ‘Shadwell Stair,’ by Wilfred Owen  
> \- ‘Lullaby,’ by W. H. Auden  
> \- ‘Calamus 1,’ by Walt Whitman  
> \- ‘Funeral Blues,’ W. H. Auden  
> \- ‘Dedicace,’ by Aleister Crowley  
> \- ‘Parfum Exotique,’ by Charles Baudelaire  
> \- ‘Por Encontrar Un Beso Tuyo,’ by Federico García Lorca  
> \- ‘I Wake and Feel the Fell of Dark, Not Day,’ by Gerard Manley Hopkins  
> \- ‘Catallus 48,’ by Gaius Valerius Catullus  
> \- ‘Whoever You Are Holding Me Now in Hand,’ by Walt Whitman  
> \- ‘Doom of Beauty,’ by Michelangelo (di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni)  
> \- ‘Celestial an Earthly Love,’ by Michelangelo (di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni)  
> \- ‘Sonnet 20,’ by William Shakespeare
> 
> Honorable poem mentions include “The Flea” by Donne, and “The Platonic Blow” by W.H. Auden, both gems, but one’s about a straight couple and the other didn’t fit my timeline, as well as “Sonnet du Trou du Cul,” by Paul Verlain and Arthur Rimbaud - a translation of which you should only look up if you first google a violet dianthus, which is the proper translation of the flower mentioned in the poem.


	3. A Change of Course

James read all of the hand-transcribed poems, every one. 

He knew the names - Auden, Whitman, Lorca, Beaudelaire - without knowing how, works that seemed familiar to him as he read. 

James knew – of course he knew – that he preferred men. He found men and women attractive both– each had their own merit – but his preference was easy to determine. Still, he wasn't so stupid as to mention it. James had heard enough lewd stories from Howard since his recovery about the type of parties you might enjoy if you had no preference either way or, at least, if you didn't mind someone else's. He tried not to think about it now – the idea of de Winter as any one of the numerous faces in any one of the numerous parties from Howard's stories made his stomach twist and his face heat. 

But even then, the idea of mentioning his preference to Howard – even merely suggesting it in a manner that would be easy to refute if his perception was incorrect – made his stomach twist just the same.

As for de Winter's poetry, though it did not seem so strange strange to James that de Winter kept with him the slim anthology, it surprised him that he should have lent it to James so easily. Some French, some Spanish, even some Latin, there was a definite theme, a definite intimacy. James felt a little unmoored about it, especially when, the next morning, he set the book down on his bedcovers and it opened at the title page. 

Written there, in steadily looping cursive, was a dedication in the same handwriting – unsigned.

 _'To Steve, my Vermeer,'_ it read. _'Something compiled, as I could not compose. It’s evident that I’m no poet, for if any face could stir the endless love in my heart to poetry in my fingers, it would be yours,  
as I am,  
always._

James closed the book, feeling suddenly as though he'd seen something he shouldn't have, something not meant for his eyes. 

Steven, de Winter had said. Indirectly, but still - _you know my name, why not use it_. Not ‘call me Steve’ - perhaps because, like that, in full and held carefully on the tongue, it wasn’t meant for friends, but for love.

For Rebecca.

Sometimes Howard would read James an article from the paper, or ask for James to read him out a letter or an invitation. James wondered if de Winter's wife had ever read to him, or perhaps he to her, heads close in a fire-lit room, fingers twined, as one secretive voice murmured, _Je respire l'odeur de ton sein chaleureux._

He shook himself out of it, and decided to take breakfast. Then, perhaps, he might wander Monte himself, alone – it didn't seem so daunting a place now that he'd been outside without Howard. And, though he'd had de Winter with him, there was still plenty to see, plenty he'd been too preoccupied to notice. 

The day dragged slowly for him, despite the beauty of it. He took lunch in a small café, and left before the stares of the patrons could become too discouraging. He found the cobbled square, where de Winter had meant to sketch the day before, and meant to sit there and enjoy a coffee, but found himself saddened by the fairness of the day. Yesterday, the breeze had not allowed for sketching. Today the weather would have been perfect. 

He took in the coast and wandered through the tourist spots, found Howard's ice-cream parlour and even a bookshop of his own. He found himself perusing the poetry section before he realized why – yes, he'd always enjoyed poetry himself, but he became aware of the book in his hand moments before he realized for whom he had thought to buy it, and put it back with a sudden rush of shame. De Winter didn't need gifts from someone like him, nor could James think to know what de Winter would enjoy, _or_ what he might already possess. He tried to push down the giddy, childlike fascination, the strange infatuation with de Winter. He was a handsome man, a _beautiful_ man. And his voice was honey, and his eyes were summer, and his hands were warm, and sure, and strong, but James did not know him. 

James knew an idea of him. And de Winter was a fairly recent widower, from what he understood, within the last year or so. It wouldn't be right. 

He resolved, when he returned to the room, to take out de Winter’s anthology and write down the book's title and the poems therein. He might do the same of the name of the book in the bookshop in case it were unavailable to him should he decide to purchase a copy at a later date. If nothing else, he could look back on the collection as a memory of Monaco if ever he should read them again in future. 

By the time it was almost six, James was anxious. He'd heard nothing from de Winter, by way of the lift-boy or otherwise, and began to worry about whether or not he ought to go to dinner at all. He still had de Winter's note, and he took it out to be certain of his understanding. Dinner, tonight, had been a definite invitation. 

He was being ridiculous, of course – why should de Winter send a second message to confirm the first? The first was confirmation enough, there wasn't any need to verify it.

He knew that the wait staff, the lift boy, the doorman – in fact, anyone he might encounter – would be more likely to consider him of import now, now that he'd been seen with de Winter, but it didn't make him any less aware of the folded sleeve at his left hand side, the ordinariness of his suit. He Brylcreemed his hair and did his best to tame the unruly strands, but he still felt like Howard Stark's man instead of his own. 

At five minutes to seven, James left the room and went downstairs to the dining room. It was full of people, and he fought the urge to turn and leave - crowds were all very well accompanied, but alone it felt like he might drown in patrons before he ever reached a table at all – making his way across the room to de Winters usual table. He couldn't see across very well, and he was uncertain until almost the last moment that de Winter would be at his table at all. Except that, for one brief moment, he could see blond hair between tables. Relief bloomed welcome in his chest, and de Winter must have been looking in his direction for, no sooner had James seen him than de Winter's head and shoulders rose above the busy diners as he stood, his expression soft as his shoulders dropped a little. 

He moved, as James reached him, to pull out the chair for him, and James couldn't help his smile in return.

“Hi,” de Winter said absurdly. “Hello. Good- How- How was- I'm so sorry about yesterday-”

“No, I-” James answered. “Please, don't apologize-”

“-you must think I'm so bad at- Oh, but I have to-”

“It's not- Don't worry-”

And then de Winter laughed softly, ducking his head as he rolled one shoulder, and then he held his hand out to James. 

James intended to shake it but, instead, de Winter reached just a little further so that they held each other by the forearm instead. De Winter's free hand came up a moment later to cover James', and he squeezed firmly, gaze unwavering. 

“Please,” he said. “Sit, don't let me keep you standing all night.”

And James took his seat. 

If he'd hoped to be deterred from his private conclusions by their sharing a meal, those hopes were dashed. They ate mostly in companionable silence, scattered anecdotes and occasional pleasantries, but there wasn't need for much besides. De Winter told him of his adventures in Sospel – another set of photographs, another set of handshakes – and James told him of his day out. He told de Winter about Howard’s ice-cream parlor and the little bookshop. 

“Howard still not over his oysters?” de Winter asked, and James bit back a laugh at the dryness of his tone and the knowing humor in the single raised eyebrow. 

“He's faring better,” he answered. “Shouldn't be long now before he's up and about again, and then we’ve another week in Monte before he even wants to think about leaving.”

“Mm,” de Winter said softly. “I do hope he can still spare you from time to time.”

And, when James looked at him, he was looking back with something indecipherable in his expression, though his smile was warm and his gaze was steady.

All in all, it was a wonderful meal, including dessert. 

For which de Winter paid.

“Please, I-”

“How much does Howard pay you?” de Winter said, and James shook his head minutely, pressed his lips together. 

“I don't need charity.”

“It's not charity,” de Winter answered. “Aren't we friends?”

James looked at him, his mouth twisting. Were they? Is that what they should call each other?

“Are we?” James said, and de Winter's smile faded a little.

“Aren't we?” he said, and James couldn't stand the uncertainty in his expression, felt immediately like he wanted to pick his words out of the air and stuff them back into his mouth.

“Is,” James said, and then he wet his lips, couldn’t help the nervous glance at the maître d’hôtel, who wasn’t even nearly looking in their direction, “that what we are?”

And de Winter drew a long, slow, steadying breath. 

Somehow it eased James’ mind to hear it - without being certain of how he came to know it, he knew that this was a man with resolve, whose mind was made up. De Winter wasn’t asking for confirmation, it had been almost rhetorical in his eyes, and James was stunned in that moment. De Winter - Steven - considered him a friend. Really, truly, a friend - James was a friend of de Winter’s.

“I’ll get dinner,” de Winter said, Steven said to him, “we’ll put it on my bill, and you can take me to Howard’s little ice-cream joint tomorrow, how ‘bout it?”

James laughed a little, looked around the huge dining hall and then back at de Winter. Steven. James narrowed his eyes a little.

“Alright,” he said eventually. “I’ll hold you to it.”

De Winter opened his mouth, amusement in his eyes, but then he shook his head.

“Good,” he said, and nodded. “Good.”

But the fact of it was that, with Howard getting better, James was going to be occupied with him. It was Howard who was rehabilitating him, Howard who was financing him, Howard who was putting him and taking him places. So, not the next day - when he and de Winter went to the beach, and then for coffee, and then for the ice-cream James had promised - but the day after, when Howard felt well enough to be out of bed, what choice did James have? 

“I see,” de Winter told him, in the lobby of the hotel. “And he’s not going to let you spend your time with me?”

James cringed internally - at least he very much hoped it was internal - and shook his head.

“It’s not like that at all,” he said. “I’m…” And then he moved his shoulder within his suit jacket, but de Winter didn’t even look at it. “What use am I like this?” he said. “What use am I as a gentleman’s man when I don’t even got two workin’ hands, huh?” 

“You’re worth more than that,” de Winter said. 

“I’m worth what he pays me,” James said. “Because he pays me. Otherwise I’d be worth not a damned thing except my army pension. It’s not that he won’t let me, it’s that he’s my job! I have an obligation to him, I’m repaying a debt.”

De Winter lifted his head. 

“Bu-”

“But nothing,” he said, and the interruption felt strange in his mouth, like there was something off about it, like he shouldn’t be saying it - forbidden almost. A man of de Winter’s standing and a man of James’? “You’ve been very kind to me but I’m Howard’s man and-”

“You just don’t get it, do you?” de Winter said, and James blinked, startled.

“I beg your pardon?” he said, and de Winter glanced left and then right and then brought his hand up to cup James’ elbow, took a couple of shuffling steps forward so that James had to step back. 

It put James’ back a lot closer to the nearest wall and, while he liked to make sure nobody could walk up behind him unexpectedly, it also put the bulk of Steven de Winter between him and the rest of the world. 

“You think I’m asking to spend my time with you for the same reason you think I drove you through Monte, and the same reason you think I lent you that book, and the same reason you think I bought you dinner. You think I’m being _kind._ Don’t you?”

He sounded so annoyed about it that James was worried he must have misread entirely, that he must have been meant to provide something in return, that perhaps de Winter wanted to better get to know Howard and James had-

“I spend my time with you because I _want_ to,” de Winter said, his expression softening, the breadth of his body becoming less somehow, his fingers curling where theyheld James’ elbow. “Because I _like_ to. I haven’t had a good friend, a _real friend_ since…For a very long time. And you don’t seem to have any of the same ideas of me that Howard does, thank _God_. I’m not showing you Monte so you’ll know where to call a cab from, I’m not spending the days with you because I’ve nothing better to do…” He seemed to realize then how close they were, blinking, seemed to notice how he towered over James. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry, James, I…I forget how…Intimidating I can be.” He let go. “I’m sorry. And i-if you don’t want to spend the time with me, if I’ve misunderstood then _tell_ me, by all means tell me. But if your worry is that I’m wasting time with you out of boredom or pity…” And he shook his head. “Not at all, James. Never. I like spending my time with you. I’d like to spend more of it. Would you let me?”

And, slowly, James nodded.

He would, he really would. And de Winter smiled - broad and beautiful, his head ducked before he looked at James from under his lashes. 

“Good,” he said softly. “Now listen, I’ve got to head out tonight, but…perhaps I can see you for breakfast tomorrow? We can have something to eat here and get coffee in the square, yeah?”

James nodded again.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yes. I’d like that.”

De Winter lifted a hand to James’ elbow again and squeezed lightly. 

“Then I’ll see you in the morning,” he murmured, and then, with a long, slow look down the length of James’ body and back, he gave James elbow one more squeeze, turned away and was gone.

James tried his best to remember to breathe, tried his best to remember how to keep his feet, and tried not too smile to broadly at the thought of sharing breakfast with de Winter. With Steven.

But the best laid plans, as James’ mother always said (which came to him one sunny afternoon without him realizing it. He couldn’t picture her face too well, but he’d started to remember her voice). James went back to the room to speak to Howard - even just to find out how much he’d be needed - and found Howard on the telephone.

“I’m terribly sorry about it,” Howard said, telephone receiver tucked up against his shoulder. 

James couldn’t do much for him like this because Howard had picked up the cradle and the receiver and was walking rapidly from the nightstand to the desk and back again while James tried to help him into his jacket. 

“Hang it all, Aissey, I’ll handle the brass,” and the he was trying to stick his arm in the sleeve. “I’ll handle the cat, then!” Cat? “You know what good it’ll do to try and separate…No, but if you…Aissey…” he put the cradle down to get into his jacket on the other side. “Well I’ve got a plane, haven’t I? I can meet you there if you…” He stopped, rolled his eyes heavenward, and shook his head. “I can’t say with any certainty, you know what they said before, it was the best choice, wasn’t it?”

Howard glanced at James then, brow furrowed. He raised his eyebrows in a clear, _can you believe this?_ and then sighed heavily. 

James frowned.

“Well I can’t exactly say no, now, can I? You’ll have Phillips on me otherwise, have you spoken to-” and here he looked at James. 

It didn’t seem to matter what Howard wanted, anyhow - he could hear the voice on the other end of the telephone sounding pretty worked up about something. 

“Well, alright then, _fine,_ " Howard bit out. “I guess I’ll be seeing you soon after all.”

And he hung up.

“Well, looks like you and I are headed over the pond, my friend,” he said, and James felt his mouth drop open. 

“When?” he said, and Howard waved a hand. 

“Oh, tomorrow,” he said. “Don’t worry about it, the tickets are all paid for anyhow-”

But James couldn’t hear him, not really. James’ blood was roaring in his ears and his heart was trying to beat out of his chest. James was picturing de Winter’s face when he told him. 

“What time tomorrow?” James asked, and Howard cocked his head. 

“Plane leaves at eight, we’ll need to be out of here by seven, latest.”

So no time for breakfast. Which meant he would not be seeing de Winter in the morning. 

Panic washed over him like a wave, forget morning - he wouldn’t be seeing de Winter at all, probably not ever.

“I,” James said. “I see.”

“You alright, Pal? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

James nodded but couldn’t speak. He could get a message to de Winter tonight, at least. Tell him…tell him what? Howard’s home address? He couldn’t do anything, not really, except thank de Winter for the time spent with him, for the way de Winter had treated him. 

But then he remembered. 

De Winter wasn’t going to be here tonight. 

James had already lost him, and hadn’t even had the chance to say goodbye.

***

James didn’t sleep. He _couldn’t_ sleep.

He tried, tried to convince himself that it was futile to worry, that the things he felt for de Winter would pass. He tried to tell himself that Los Angeles was America, that it could be home, that he could be happy as Howard’s man - he knew for certain that he owed Howard his loyalty, at least. He tried not to think of de Winter’s warm gaze, his steady hands, his deep voice, but failed, and failed, and failed. Tried not to think of how distant Los Angeles seemed - tried not to dread it instead of anticipate. There was nothing in Los Angeles for him, except for Howard’s job.

The sun rose at just past four, and James was still awake, throat tight, eyes itching. He walked to the window and watched the golden light begin to sparkle on the sea, and pressed his hand to his mouth to hold back the sound. 

He could leave a message. He would have to leave a message. And, maybe one day, he’d see de Winter at a party of Howard’s, perhaps cross paths with him in the street. 

Maybe one day, de Winter would forgive him for making him sit at breakfast alone. 

James shook his head at his foolhardiness about the whole thing. 

De Winter probably wouldn’t even notice.

De Winter wouldn’t miss him at all.

~

He sent a message with the lift boy, scrawled hastily in handwriting that was still new. He’d had good looping cursive once, so Howard told him, and it would only be a matter of practice to get it back again.

_We are leaving for Los Angeles. Howard told me last night, after our dinner, after you said good-bye. I can  
hardly think of anything to say on the matter except that it is such a shock to me and I am saddened to  
leave you and Monte. The ice-cream parlor is down by the coast, past the boat sheds, and I hope you’ll  
go there. I want to thank you, more than anything else I want to thank you. People no longer look at  
me like a man, a person. They look at me with pity, and you did anything but that and I am so grateful;  
grateful that you spent your time in Monte with me, as I am to have spent my time in Monte with you.  
Warmest Regards,  
James Barnes._

He folded the missive, swallowed down the lump in his throat, and gave the note to the lift boy. Their wake-up call would come soon, and then they would pack, and then they would travel to Los Angeles - away from Monte, from de Winter, away from everything that might have been.

~

The sun was truly up by six, the day bright and warm already. James was packing Howard’s things - with Howard’s assistance, of course, because one needed a pair of hands at least to pack. James knew the day was warm and bright because he could not stop staring out of their window, as though he could slow time down by committing the view to memory, as though he could stay in the memory forever if he only made it clear enough. 

Which was what he was doing at thirty three minutes past six when someone banged on their hotel room door so suddenly and so heavily that, for a moment, James’ first thought was to take cover. 

“What in blazes is all that racket?” Howard asked, and went to answer the door himself. 

De Winter, tall and broad and wild-eyed, dressed in pale clothes with James’ letter in hand, almost flattened Howard against the wall. 

“I thought you were in Sospel!” Howard said as de Winter wheeled about to face him.

“What the hell are you playing at, Howard?” he demanded, and Howard held his hands out. 

“I said I thought you were in Sospel!” he answered. “Damn it, man, you trying to bring the whole place down?”

“Why are you going to Los Angeles?” de Winter said, and then he looked at James. “Hold on,” as though James were going to interrupt or demand he leave.

“What on earth are you doing here?” Howard said, and de Winter shut the door behind him and looked at him.

“Why are you going to Los Angeles?” he said. “James said you had another week here at least.”

And then Howard turned around to look at _James_ , and he felt like a bug in a jar. 

“Oh. Did he?” Howard said, but he didn’t appear to be angry about it, just confused. “Aissey wants me there, something about the-”

“Oh really?” de Winter said. “Well you can get there, can’t you?” 

And Howard frowned, looked de Winter up and down, and then the light seemed to come on in his eyes.

“So you’ve been sightseeing, eh?” he said, one side of his mustache twitching upward. “Didn’t realize you’d found yourself a guide,” and then he looked to de Winter again. “Here, I thought you were in Sospel.”

“Well I’m in Monte,” de Winter answered. “And you’re leaving for Los Angeles.”

“Well,” Howard answered.

“And you’re taking him with you?”

And then they were looking at James again.

“Look here, pal,” Howard started, but James felt his brow furrow - de Winter wouldn’t like that tone, James knew it. “James is my man and the plan’s for Los Angeles.”

“Howard look at me,” de Winter said, and so Howard did. “You know.” De Winter raised his eyebrows. “All of it, Howard, you _know_. And I’m asking you as a friend, Howard, I’m asking you because you _know_ what I’ve been though, and you know what James has been through, I’m asking you. Does it make so little sense to change plans?”

Change them? He’d only just changed them to get to Los Angeles yesterday, surely….Surely he couldn’t mean what James thought he meant? It felt like they were speaking a language he’d learned in school and not practiced since - that this was something he should understand but couldn’t.

“I don’t know, Cap,” Howard sighed, and Steven’s jaw locked tight. “Aissey wanted me in Los Angeles, I’d planned to take Jamie here with me.”

“Cap?” James said without thinking.

“I was a Captain in the war,” de Winter answered without looking at him. “You know what’s going on in Los Angeles and you know what it took to get to here, Howie, all I’m asking is you look. Take a good look.”

Howard did, took a large breath and held it for a good few seconds until he sighed. 

“What’s your play?” Howard asked.

“Things have changed, clearly,” de Winter answered, and then, _then_ he looked at James, with such intensity that James thought he might melt. “The plan was that I leave for Sospel. It was chance that I saw you, but I saw you. I couldn’t help but see you, James, and…

“You know how dangerous this is?” Howard asked. “What you’re doing?” 

“I know,” de Winter said. “But you know me, Howard. Tell me, would you expect anything else?” 

Howard smiled. 

“No, I guess I wouldn’t,” he said, and then he seemed to deflate, affectionate resignation in his features as he swept out a hand. “Alright,” he said. “Ask away.”

“James,” de Winter said, and Howard turned away - presumably to give them some semblance of privacy - but de Winter walked all the way over to him and slid one palm onto his waist, cupped James’ elbow in his other palm. 

James felt his eyes go wide, glanced over at Howard, but de Winter shook his head.

“It’s alright,” he said. “Howard knows about me.”

“That’s right, pal, guys and gals from here to Timbuktu.”

James blinked - surely he couldn’t mean-

“That is an exaggeration,” de Winter said, but there was a smile turning the corner of his mouth. “There hasn’t been anyone for me a while now. But I should very much like it if you’d come with me to England, James, instead of going to Los Angeles.”

James stared at him.

“I…” he said. “I’m…to be in _your_ employ?”

And de Winter stared at him a moment longer, before he ran his hand the length of James’ arm and caught James’ fingers in his own, lifting James’ hand a moment later to press his lips to James’ knuckles. James felt his stomach plummet, felt his heart leap into his throat. Still, Howard wasn’t looking at them. 

“Come to England,” de Winter said, and then he searched James’ face, gave him a meaningful look, raising his eyebrows as he tilted his head forward, his hands coming up between them. _“With_ me."

And James felt something twist in the middle of his chest, something coalesce. For the first time, he thought he might understand. 

They’d spent days together, barely that, but there’d been something about de Winter the whole time, and de Winter insisted that his attentions were more than sympathetic, maintained that James’ company was desired. De Winter had brought James to and from the hotel, had spent hours with him, and James felt at every turn that de Winter could almost be a brother to him, could almost be a companion. 

“You’d want me with you?” he murmured, scarcely able to believe his ears, and de Winter drew a deep breath as his mouth stretched into a smile, his eyes losing the hard, piercing quality and becoming instead warm, gentle.

He must see it, James realized. He must be able to tell, just from that, with barely any words passed between them, and his hands squeezed gently at James’ hip and elbow. 

“Will you?” he said softly, though his expression said he already knew.

And suddenly he could picture it, from the descriptions Steven had given him. Could picture them together by the waterside, or sharing a coffee just as they had before. Could picture them shoulder to shoulder walking through summer grass or fall trees, could imagine sitting with him before a warm stove or a crackling fire, could imagine de Winter’s embrace in a quiet corner, or perhaps in a warm bed. And he wanted it. More than anything he could think of, he wanted it.

James nodded silently, unable to give his answer, and de Winter, Steven, Steven took James’ face in his hands and, for one wild moment, James thought de Winter, thought Steven, might kiss him. 

He did not - it would be more than foolhardy with Howard in the room - but James realized for the first time that he _wanted_ him to, and then de Winter turned away, one hand slipping easily down to James’ left shoulder as he went from standing before James to standing beside him. It didn’t hurt James that he should choose that shoulder, but it surprised him. There wasn’t much of it left, though one could hardly tell if James kept his jacket. But de Winter, Steven, paid it no mind at all. 

“Well, Howard, looks like Jarvis’ vacation’s over?”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Howard answered, turning to face them again. “I can barely get him to take his paid vacation every year, he’ll be wringing his hands by now.”

And then he looked at James. 

“Well,” he said, not unkindly, and James felt himself blush fiercely. 

“I want you to know,” James said. “It’s….not that I’m ungrateful-”

“I know what ingratitude looks like and I’ve never seen a whit of it from either one of you,” and here he looked at Steven. “Stealin’ my right hand man.”

“Well I’m,” James said instinctively, the answer bubbling up out of his chest, and they both looked at him. “Not. Much of a-a left hand now, am I?” 

For a few long moments, neither of them said anything in response, and then Howard guffawed, clapped a hand to James’ right shoulder once, and turned away. 

“Mind you take good care of him,” he said, fixing Steven with a look. 

“I will,” James said, at exactly the same moment Steven said it too, and he looked at Steven de Winter to find that Steven de Winter was looking back at him.

“I will,” Steven said again, softer this time, and passed his arm around James’ shoulders instead, held him there a moment. 

“I suppose I’d better renew the room,” Howard said as he made sure all his belongings were separated from James’. And, though both James and de Winter attempted to object, Howard insisted. “Call it a gift,” he said, and James shook his head. 

“I’ve taken so much from you, and now you’re leaving for Los Angeles and I’m…”

“No hard feelings,” Howard said. “I can’t compete with company like that,” and he nodded at de Winter. “Besides, no offense meant, but nobody makes and Old Fashioned like Jarvis.”

And, at this, he took his hat and his jacket. 

“Be a sport and make sure they come for the bags, won’t you?” Howard said. “De Winter?”

“Of course,” de Winter answered, and Howard donned his hat.

“Stay in touch, pal,” he said, throwing a sloppy salute in James’ general direction. 

James meant to say something - something heartfelt, something that would explain just what it meant to him that Howard had dragged him along for as long as he had, that Howard had held him together and fed and clothed him. It almost felt like he were a prize, being passed to the next caretaker. James was _mortified_. But, under the guilt and the anxiousness, after the hesitation was the knowledge that, though the day had changed spectacularly, he was still saying goodbye to someone he considered a friend.

“I can’t thank you enough,” James told him, and Howard just shrugged a shoulder and walked to the door. 

“If you need me,” he said, “you know all the places I could be.” Then he looked to Steven. “Good seeing you, friend.”

“Thank you, Howard,” de Winter said, Steven said, softly. “For everything.”

Howard waved the statement off and slipped out of the doorway and into the corridor.

That left him alone with de Winter, alone with Steven. And, though he’d been alone with Steven plenty of times up until now, it had never been in a private room. James’ whole future had changed in less than five minutes but he couldn’t bring himself to be afraid. He ought to have been - he knew as much - but he couldn’t be, not in de Winter’s presence. Not with Steven.

Steven pulled him into an embrace a moment later, turning his cheek to press it to James’ hair. 

“I can’t believe this,” he said softly.

But, when he drew back, he was smiling. For the second time, James thought de Winter might kiss him, but he didn’t.

“This is more than I ever thought I’d get a chance at. Is there anything you need to ask me? Anything you want?”

“What do you mean,” James said, “truly, when you say that you want me with you?”

“If I could ask you to marry me I would, you palooka,” de Winter answered, searching his face for a moment, and James’ heart soared. “And I only hope that someday you might say the same,” he continued, but then he let go - stepped away, took his hands from James’ body and left him longing for their return. “I know that you’re still regaining who you were, so we’ll go slow. But where we’re going, we can be safe. The others there, they know about me. They’ll know about us, we can be open there.”

“God, this is insanity,” James murmured. “This is insanity, I hardly know you.”

And yet it felt like Steven de Winter was the second part of his soul.

“You will,” Steven told him. “You will, we’ll learn together. But, for now, I’ll fetch the lift boy for Howard’s bags, and then we’ll go down to breakfast, and we’ll spend the day together. How’s that sound to you?”

“That sounds just swell,” James said, because he felt it might sound foolish if he simply answered, _perfect._

***

The weeks they spent in Europe were both wonderful and maddening. James, now, is glad that the first flush of love cannot be repeated (as amusing a thought as that is to him now.) At that point in their knowing each other, it made his hand shake, made his laughter come too freely. Every joke was hilarity, every meal too much for his stomach to bear. Not that either of them minded, of course. To James, their time in Europe was all but a honeymoon - Steven seemed, after Howard left, to become younger somehow, to lose some of the darkness about him. James remembered very little of the war, back then, beside the emotion of it, the pain. He couldn’t tell where he’d been or what forces he’d fought, but he’d wake, sweating, from nightmares, holding bedsheets of peach and white instead of the yellow coverlet that smothered him in his nightmares. Thank goodness, then, that Steven insisted they take their separate rooms.

“It’s not because I’ve changed my mind,” Steven told him on the promenade one evening, as they stood side by side at the rail, before they left Monte. “It’s because I know from what you’ve told me that you can’t be sure of who you were. And we’ve known each other barely long enough to even be friends by normal standards. I’d hate for you to believe you feel for me now and remember later that there’s someone else, or find I’m not the man that…you think I am.”

“And when,” James answered, trying to will the words to come forward where fear held them back, stung a little, “when will you feel I know myself enough?”

And Steven turned to him, the tilt of his upper body belying a want to touch. 

“I don’t doubt for a moment that you know your own heart,” he answered. “But you said yourself you hardly know me. Let me spend this time with you, let me show you who I am. I want us to…” and here he paused while a young woman and her beau passed by in the evening gloom, their heads together, consumed by each others’ thoughts so that they barely saw anyone else. “…I want us to care for each other truthfully,” Steven continued once they’d passed. “I want you to know me well. And I hope that once you do you’ll feel for me as I do for you.”

James felt that first flush then, one that stole his breath and his words and made his cheeks warm.

He nodded.

“I think that I should like that,” he said.

Steven nodded, then shook his head a little as his mouth drew into a smile. 

“There’s times I can’t believe my luck, you know,” he said. “I’d like to take you to dinner. After, we can walk along the coast if you’re up to it, perhaps you could come back to my room and sit for me.”

James frowned a little.

“Sit for you?” he said softly, and the smile faded abruptly from Steven’s face.

“For a picture,” he said. “A drawing, I’d like to draw you. If you’d like? I mean if you _want_ -”

“Oh!” James said, and of course it made sense. “I-” And then he laughed. “I thought you drew landscapes.”

“There you are,” Steven answered. “You know something more about me already - I draw both. What do you say, would you sit for me, after dinner tonight? After a walk, if you’d like one?”

“I,” James answered. “W…Why not?” 

And Steven brightened, seemed to grow an inch where he stood.

“Well then,” he murmured. “Shall we go? I wouldn’t want you to get cold.”

And so they went. 

James sat for him and talked with him and that night, as they had every night, they said their goodbyes and met for breakfast in the morning. He and Steven might as well have been the only two people in the world for all the attention they paid to others, might well have never needed to leave for all the verve with which they lived those short few weeks. It passed in a whirlwind, of course, shared drinks on cool grass in the day, or else journeys in Steven’s car, or walks on the long promenade. At mealtimes that weren’t passed in the hotel, they’d find those little places Howard seemed to like, or else Steven would sketch while James read. 

“Read it to me,” Steven said to him, one warm afternoon close to the end of their time in Europe - after they’d gone through to Venice, and seen a little of France.

And so James read to him in halting French, though the words felt more familiar in his head than on his tongue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The line Je respire l'odeur de ton sein chaleureux is from ‘Parfum Exotique,’ by Charles Baudelaire


	4. To Midwood

They arrived at Midwood together in late March. They would reach Midwood, so Steven said, with the swallows and the bluebells, and the flowers would be in bloom, though the summer would not yet be in full flush. 

They traveled together and, though all who saw them surely considered them friends, they shared a compartment on the train through France, and took their meals together, and stood side by side at the rail as they crossed the channel, with the salt air on their faces. Steven did not take a cigarette when offered by another passenger, and James declined also. He’d had no desire to participate in it since his recovery, and saw no reason to start now. They took a car from Dover, right hand drive just to compound James’ sense of dissonance, one that Midwood had sent for them, and it was only once they were in it that Steven unbuttoned his collar and settled into his seat, broad and comfortable.

“Alone at last, huh?” he said quietly as they traveled the country road together, greenery sailing by them interspersed by field and forest. 

James realized it was true - when they stopped for breakfast at a pub Steven said he liked on this route, Steven paid for them both, and they ate well, and at their leisure, but the barman stared at him. At his missing arm, at his face. Probably wondering who this new person was that Steven de Winter was bringing alongside.

“We’ll be there by this afternoon,” Steven said. “It’s beautiful. We’ll be safe there, they know about me. You won’t have to worry about anything.”

And James thought he might ask how an American came to beat such a place as Midwood, except that he wasn’t sure it was right to ask. Perhaps the house had been his bride’s, and fell now to him as her widower.

Steven had, for the most part, considered everything James could think of for him to consider. He’d obtained details of James’ doctors from Howard, and James had told him how to deal with him. The worst of it was that he couldn’t talk about the things he didn’t know. His doctors were insistent he allow his memories to return by themselves, but he longed for someone to talk to about the war, for anyone to perhaps break the dam in his mind. He knew he’d been a sniper, and knew he’d been a POW at one point, but beyond the occasional flash or half-forgotten dream, he knew almost nothing of who he’d been.

“It doesn’t matter to me if who you were never comes back to you,” Steven said to him one night, in the privacy of their compartment on the train. “All I care about’s who you are now.”

And so James was to continue as he’d been going along - hoping the old James would rise to the surface while all his doctors insisted that nobody reach in to help.

He wondered, as the scenery passed them, whether Steven’s wife had been someone James resembled, or whether she had been entirely different. He couldn’t ask, that would be awful. But he wished for a while that he could know, that he could feel a little more of her, that he had some better understanding of her. He didn’t know what kind of man should live at a place like Midwood, except the kind of man that Steven was. And James was fairly certain he couldn’t be anything like Steven.

“There she is,” Steven murmured, and for a moment James’s musings made him look for the woman who’d occupied his thoughts, before he realized that Steven meant Midwood. 

James wished he could be back at the pub, or else back on the ferry, or on the train in France. The house was, just as he had indicated, beautiful, and James found himself fearful of it as it hove into view atop a green hill before them.

If only he could be back in Monte, where few people had known Steven and none had known James, where they’d had all day to do as they pleased and shared quiet meals anonymously in their own time. Here, Steven would be Mr de Winter the widower, living at Midwood, and James would be a new man at the house where once a woman had resided. He didn’t know _what_ to expect of the people at Midwood itself, regardless of what Steven had told him. And it was huge. Not as huge as James had been worried about, thank goodness, but still huge. It stood atop the hill, proud and broad, and Steven turned his head and smiled.

“See it?” he said, as though James might miss it somehow. “We’re almost there - that house there on the hill, with the little bit of sea beyond.” And then he looked James over. “I…You won’t need your coat, I’m sorry. I should’ve thought of it. I really did bundle you off didn’t I? We should have called into London and bought you something to wear.”

“I don’t mind,” James told him.

Steven shook his head, a rueful smile playing about his lips. 

“No,” he said softly. “Some people are all about it, though. You know? They always want to look their best. Remember, if that’s what you want, I’m happy to have you that way.”

“Not if you don’t mind,” James answered, wondering if she had wanted to look her best, if she’d been happiest in frocks or gowns, wearing her fortune for all to see it. 

Steven shook his head a little but didn’t say anything else. 

When they came to gate, James gripped the edge of his seat. They passed through the huge wrought-iron gate, and the road curved ahead of them in a long drive. As they passed, a face peered from the lodge windows - an older woman, with her hair all done up in an old-fashioned way. James felt the back of his neck begin to itch - he knew why they stared, of course, they would all of them be waiting to see who Mr de Winter was bringing home. 

“It’s….going to be….Well, I don’t know what it’ll be to you,” Steven told him. “I’ve talked to a few people I know about it and they think it’s best to settle you in here now, but I’ll be here with you. Don’t mind the people you see about the place. They know we’re coming, they’ll get used to everything.”

He was babbling, James realized, and it astounded him. Someone like Steven de Winter could babble, could be nervous. Steven brought one hand to James’ knee and squeezed it lightly, and James face began to burn. The idea that the staff at Midwood might accept Steven’s leaning, might recognize James the way Steven wanted him to be seen…

It terrified him. 

He couldn’t imagine what they might say about him, and tried his best not to think of it. _A man!_ in tittering voices. _Only one arm, did you see?_

“Here,” Steven said as they pulled up at the front of a house, after what seemed like an age, where five or six people waited for them as the driveway opened out. 

It was just as marvelous as it had seemed from the road below, beautiful and graceful against the sky, with its huge windows and towering walls, terraces sloping to the gardens and the gardens sloping to the sea. When they came to a stop, James fumbled for the door handle, reaching across himself to do so.

“No, no, wait,” Steven said quickly, and got out of the car himself to jog around the bonnet and open the door for James.

James stared up at him, blinking in the late afternoon sun, and then took the hand Steven offered him. Once he was on his feet on the fine, tan gravel of the driveway, Steven let him go again, and then stood by him as James took in the people at the front of the house.

At their head was a woman - dark haired and narrow-waisted, she was beautiful, her hair in carefully arranged curls, a tight smile on lips painted red. Behind her on the steps were five men: The first was tall and sported an impressive handlebar mustache and a grin, his eyes light enough that James noticed it. The next was a slender man, with narrower features, not built as strongly as the first though still strong - his mustache was slim, more like Howard’s, with a small amount of whisker below his lower lip. The third was a man whose skin was dark and who wore a circle beard. He wore a flat cap, too, and had one hand in his pocket, and he was the broadest of them, strong where the first was stocky, muscled where the second was lithe. The next man had a mustache too, somewhere neither full nor slender, and his hair thinned atop his head. He was older than all of the others by five or ten years. And the fifth man was of - so it seemed to James - Japanese descent, the shortest of all of them. He wore no beard to speak of but had a day or two’s worth of stubble on his face.

Instantly, James felt more at ease for seeing them. Instead of a staff of uppity old white men in pressed suits with critical eyes, here was a group of varied fellows and a woman. From Steven’s attitude to them alone, James realized that at least some of his anxiety was from how he’d be expected to treat the house’s staff. Seeing Steven greet them with a smile and a wave put James so much more at ease than he’d realized he needed to be.

“Ready?” Steven said, and he set his hand at the small of James’ back. “This is everyone. The, obviously the place is huge- It’s a gorgeous place, wouldn’t you say?”

James, surprised a little, nodded hesitantly.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes it’s beautiful.”

Steven nodded at him, and then at the gathered staff. 

“See now,” he said. “But this is everyone, this is all we’ll need - all I ever needed isn’t it?”

Two of them - the dark-skinned man and the slender chap with Howard’s mustache - laughed a little. 

“Good journey, was it?” the woman asked, and then it was Steven who laughed. 

“It was alright,” he said. “Now show of hands those of you named James?” 

Three of the men raised their hands - the shortest of them, the slender man again, and the older of the five of them - the one with the thinning hair. 

“Right so,” Steven told him, “this first is Jim Morita. We call him Jim, so that won’t be a problem.” The man of Japanese descent gave him a short wave. “Next is James Montgomery Falsworth-”

“Much too much of a mouthful,” James Montgomery Falsworth with Howard’s mustache said.

“That’s why we call him Monty,” Steven said with a chuckle. “So you won’t get confused there either.”

“And then _il s’appelle Jacques,_ isn’t it Jacques?” Steven asked of the last man with his hand raised.

 _“Oui, Capitain,”_ Jacques answered, and Steven stared at Jacques for a moment. 

“It’s, uh,” he said a moment later. 

Two of the others were looking at Jacques too. 

“He says he doesn’t speak English,” Steven said eventually. “But what he means is he _won’t_. He understands everything, don’t you, Jacques?”

 _“Pas du tout,”_ Jacques answered - _not at all_ \- and James laughed before he thought not to.

Steven looked just as pleased with both of them as Jacques did to have made him laugh.

“There you are then,” he said. “You’re James, and they’re Jim, Monty and Jacques. Easy as pie. Then this here’s Gabriel Jones who goes by Gabe,” and here the dark-skinned man touched the tip of his finger to the peak of his flat cap with a wide, warm smile, “and lastly-”

“Timothy Aloysius Cadwallader Dugan,” said the stocky man with the handlebar mustache, and he took a few steps forward and held out his hand for James to shake.

James took it, and was surprised by the way Dugan’s hand held firm but not too tight, seemingly knowing how gentle he ought to be.

“We call him ‘Dum Dum,’” Jim Morita said. “ ‘Cause that’s what he is.”

“Har har,” Dum Dum answered. 

“And then this here’s Margaret Carter,” Steven said, and his whole being seemed to soften as he looked at her, she in dark trousers and a light shirt. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am that she’s here with all of us, they all know me well.”

James looked at him. Then he looked at the gathered people.

“You run Midwood?” James said. 

“If you like,” Monty answered over a laugh.

“Sure,” Dum Dum said too.

“Midwood was used as a rest home during the war, for wounded soldiers,” Steven said. “And…perhaps as a base of operations once or twice.”

“Oh, once or twice,” Margaret Carter said, smiling that tight smile of hers.

“But it’s mostly quiet now,” Steven continued. “We can be happy here. Safe.”

James looked at him, and at the people gathered outside the house, and at the walls of the building, at the sprawling gardens. Had Steven and his wife been here when the soldiers were? Had Mrs de Winter been at their besides while Steven went to war?

“It’s lovely,” James said softly. 

Steven smiled. 

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go on in. We can go sit in the library.”

~

Now that it’s finished, now that all of it is said and done, he knows without a doubt what happened when they were met at the front door. For a time, he’d thought it strange that Miss Carter had seemed so friendly upon their first meeting when what transpired later could be so different, but he learned the truth of it. As it stood that afternoon, Steven took him inside the house and then to the library. 

The library was a big room, bookshelves lining the walls, with a cat sitting primly in the window, and an Alsatian by hearth of the unlit fireplace. 

“Hey, Cappy boy, who’s a good dog?” Steven said as he moved toward the Alsatian, and the dog’s tail began to wag happily on his approach. The cat did not get up, but Steven mentioned it anyway. “Good afternoon, your majesty.”

“Your dog is called Captain?” 

“Coincidence, huh?” Steven answered. “Except it’s…well. Not really, I was a Captain - that’s why, uh. That’s why Jacques…”

He began to fumble for words again, and James was struck once more by the peculiar newness of it, how a man who seemed so vast and so strong could be so unsure at times. He found it endearing, more than anything else. 

“What’s the cat’s name?” James asked, by way of distracting him from his embarrassment, and Steven turned to look at him, halfway across the vast room.

“Alpine,” he said, his eyebrows coming down. “Not my choice.”

James realized abruptly whose choice it must have been, for if an animal belonged in his house and hadn’t been named by him, there could only be one other person whose choice it had been. James wondered if that was why Miss Carter’s smile had seemed tight, if Steven’s bringing him here was as welcome as he had thought. Perhaps Miss Carter had been Rebecca’s maid. Still, if Steven was head of the household, it shouldn’t matter to James whether the staff liked him or not. It was probably, he reasoned, nerves. The others had seemed so immediately friendly, it must just have been his own anxiousness. 

The room they were in now was old, quiet. It seemed that it ought to work well as a library, seemed that anything that came into it would work well as part of it. James imagined that even the scent of the lilacs he’d seen outside the windows succumbed to the old quietness of this room in summer, likely as not, that any book brought in might be shelved and kept safe ever more. It seemed hushed like an old living space, full of memory and kept silent out of respect, with any life or sound sinking into the dark paneling or the heavy curtains. Before long, the door opened, and…Monty, the man with Howard’s mustache was Monty. He brought in a tray of tea for both of them.

“Monty-” Steven began, but Monty put down the tray and raised his hands. 

“I know,” he said. “Couldn’t knock with my hands full though.” Steven shook his head, but Monty spoke before he could get any further. “Dinner at the usual time, Sir?”

He said it “Sah,” because of his accent, and James wondered what “Ma’am” might sound like if he said it, too.

Steven was frowning at him, and James wasn’t sure what was happening about it.

“I,” Steven said. “Yes. Is…Miss Carter..?” 

“She and Miss Martinelli will be out this evening,” Monty answered, and Steven’s head lifted slowly, as though he weren’t sure whether or not to agree.

“I see,” he said eventually. 

“Will that be all, Sir?” Monty asked, much like Jarvis would ask Howard. 

Steven’s eyes narrowed a little, his mouth took on that same sort of tension that Miss Carter’s had. 

“I guess,” he said quietly. “Thank you. For the tea. And the cake, God knows I could always use cake.”

“Not at all,” Monty answered, with a small smile, and then he left. 

And Steven laughed softly, his eyes closing a moment, before he crossed to one of the shelves and held up one hand near the spines of the books. When he had found one book in particular, he extracted it, and brought it to James. 

“Here,” he said.

He held, in his hand, a book, on the cover of which was an image of a ringed planet and a strange little metal box with a comet tail streaming out behind it.

“Science fiction,” he said. “Never was my sort of thing but you might like it.”

James did - very much, in fact. He couldn’t remember buying pulps or reading serials, but he supposed he must have. Images sprang to his mind unbidden, of stars and dappled planets and strange-colored skies, things he felt he’d imagined but didn’t know why. 

“I think,” he said, just as softly, “I think I will.”

Steven smiled a little.

“Come on,” he said. “I’ll pour us some tea.”

James frowned.

“Isn’t that my job?”

“As a maid or a wife?” Steven answered, his voice a little colder. “If I wanna make it my job, ain’t I allowed?”

James blinked at him, and Steven, in the silence that followed, poured one cup, and then a second, and then looked at James. 

“Oh I,” Steven said. “I don’t mean that you can’t, I just mean…”

James shook his head.

“It’s alright,” he said. “It’s alright, it’s your home after all.”

“Mmm,” Steven answered, with falling intonation, as though he wanted to admonish but had caught himself on the wrong consonant. “James,” he said a moment later. “Please, that’s not what I mean. It’s _our_ home, and you were Howard’s Man. But you’re…I suppose I’m being terribly old-fashioned about it but, when you’re here, you’re your own.”

“Aren’t I to be your Man now?” James countered, and Steven shook his head. 

“What, to shine my shoes and pour my tea and make sure I never run out of toothpaste?” he answered, wrinkling his nose in distaste. “What good is a husband who can’t provide?”

And for half a moment James felt the words like a slap in the face. Until he realized that Steven had meant _himself_ , and not James. 

“And your life’s work is to be caring for me, is it?” James asked.

Steven nodded at the patterned couch before the fireplace as an indication for James to sit, given that he was holding the small cup and saucer in both of his massive hands. 

“I aim for my life’s work to be making you happy,” he said. “Which I’d do for you no matter how you came to me. You could be blind, deaf and dumb for all I’d care but as long as I could be sure in your feelings about me then I’d be sure in mine for you.”

James sat, and Steven gave him the cup and then, before he moved away, he pressed a kiss to James’ forehead in passing, as though he had done it a thousand times before, and continued about his business of pouring a second cup. James sat there, stunned, and watched him in silence as he poured his own tea, and then he took a seat next to James. 

“Alright?” he said over a sigh, as though it had been terribly taxing for him to pour them each a cup. 

“Aside from the fact that it’s tea,” James answered, and Steven laughed. 

“Sorry,” he said. “I guess I got,” and then his expression flickered, “I guess I got used to it. Would you like me to ask for coffee instead?” 

But the thought made James’ skin crawl a little. Here was he, barely away from being Howard’s Man, and Steven wanted to know if he was ready to issue orders to the house staff? Had Rebecca issued orders to the house staff, had she been better able to deal with them? She must have, Rebecca must have known how to behave like the wife of a man like Steven de Winter.

“No,” he said. “No, no, I…I don’t. Need any of that, it’s alright. I like tea.”

It was a lie, he could barely stand it, but the first of it on his tongue reminded him of mud and grass and darkness, so he must have had it in the war, he supposed. Steven drank his own, and they sat in silence as the afternoon passed silently outside.

***

James read his book, after that. He found it less than easy to do so for the book had been on its shelf for a while and the spine was stiff, and so he tried for a time to hold it open with his hand spread on the pages. Soon, however, he came to realize that his fingers obscured the words a great deal and, to his surprise, Steven set down his sketching and held out his hands.

“Would you like me to read it to you?” he said. “Or I can ask Monty for a music stand, I know there are some floating around. If you don’t want me reading it to you.”

“That might be nice,” James told him, for it made little sense for Steven to put himself out for James’ sake. “The stand.”

“Oh,” Steven said, and he nodded, standing from the couch again. 

For a moment he seemed to pause, unsure, but then he went to the fireside and pressed the button for the bell by the mantel. Then he smiled at James. 

“Shouldn’t be too long,” he said. 

And it wasn’t - within perhaps a minute, Jim Morita appeared - but Steven stood where he was for the whole length of the wait until the door opened.

“Yo-oh?” Jim Morita said as he leaned his head and shoulders in, and Steven frowned a little.

“Uh,” he said. “We gotta music stand around here, no? Only, James…uh, for James’ book.”

“I’ll find out,” Jim Morita answered, and then he nodded at James and was gone again.

Steven nodded again, too, and then put his tea down on the table. It was nice, James thought, that he didn’t treat his staff badly. James hadn’t been treated badly by Howard, either, but he’d seen some people take their maids or their men to pieces over every little thing, seen some bark commands like the staff were dogs meant only to fetch when told and keep quiet the rest of the time. 

_Children should be seen and not heard,_ came back to James in a voice he wasn’t sure he remembered, but he knew it wasn’t his mother’s. He only remembered his mother in fits and starts but theirs had been a noisy household though the only children had been himself and his sister, and full to bursting with love for them. The only time they’d ever really expected to be quiet was church.

When he crossed the room, he went to what looked like a card table by the window, and lifted it easily, and James soon saw that it wasn’t a card table at all, but an easel. He felt his mouth drop open. Of course it made sense for Steven to have an easel. He sketched. He’d drawn _James_ , for goodness’ sake. But James somehow hadn’t expected it so soon, hadn’t expected that they’d arrive at Midwood and have tea and cookies and cake, that they’d settle in the enormous library of an enormous home and Steven would paint and James would read. 

“You know, I’ll do anything to make you happy here,” Steven said softly, setting up the easel so that it was at a reasonable height. “And I’m not the sharpest pencil in the box. There’ll be times I won’t know you need something unless you tell me.” And he stopped where he stood to look directly at James. “But if you tell me, I’ll see to it. Is that alright?” 

James looked him up and down - tall and blond and handsome, broad shouldered but somehow small with it too. He felt himself smile a little. He didn’t need to be afraid of a life with Steven, if it worked out for both of them. Steven would take care of him, and was kind to the staff, and the staff could be trusted.

“Yes,” he said softly, and Steven smiled too, and then went back to setting up his brushes.

“Yo-oh!” Jim said again as he walked in, and James twisted on the couch to see.

He smiled, and carried with him a handful of what looked like metal bars.

“Oh, swell!” Steven said, and hurried on over to help.

He and Jim made a mess of it for the first few seconds, but they got there together, for it turned out to be a stand that would fold. Together they set out its legs, turned screws to up the height to James’ head, locked pins to keep it flat. And, when the time came for James to hand over the book, Steven didn’t take it from him. Rather, he held out a hand for it, like a request, and James glanced at the page number before he surrendered it.

Steven carefully set the book on the stand, and turned up the keepers set against the bottom rail so that the stand held the pages spread. And then he frowned.

“No, that ain’t no good,” he said softly, chewing his lower lip. “Your arm’ll get tired in half a chapter - here-”

And he turned the screws again to drop it down, so that the height of it just about matched James’ lap, the way he’d held the book before, brought the stand so close that the corner nearly brushed James’ knee. That way, all James would have to do was rest his arm on his leg and move his hand for each page turn.

“How’s that?” Steven asked. 

“It’s just fine,” James answered, smiling first at Jim and then at Steven. “That’s fine.”

“Good,” Steven said softly and then, to Jim: “Thanks.”

“Sure,” Jim answered, and went on his way again.

“They like you, huh?” James asked, and Steven went a little pink, rubbed the back of his neck with his hand.

“They’re good people,” he answered. “I treat ‘em that way, ain’t no reason not to.”

James nodded.

“I’m glad,” he said. “Before we were in Monte, we stopped in Nice, and there was a man there treated his Man like dirt. Once or twice I thought about speaking to him but Howard said it isn’t done.”

Steven’s expression darkened. 

“Shame I wasn’t with you then,” he said. “Doesn’t matter what’s done or what ain’t, I’d’ve had a word or two to say.”

“I wish I had,” James told him truthfully, and his expression softened - it had a tendency to do that, James was also happy to note.

“Next time we’ll yell together, how ‘bout it?”

And James laughed. It came up all by itself, unbidden, and it felt good, he felt the ache in his cheeks. Steven’s eyes seemed to darken again, then, and yet his expression was no less gentle. 

“Oh…” and he sighed ruefully. “I missed laughter, in this place. I’m glad for it.”

James stared up at him, this towering giant of a man, and felt the same easiness he’d felt in Venice, and Monte, and France, and Dover. This was a man he could love, he was certain. Even as he thought it, Steven lifted one hand from his side and brushed his fingertips over James’ cheek, following with the edge of his thumb before he smiled a little more and dropped it away again. 

“Anything you need,” he said softly, but his voice was lower now, quieter. 

He’d done it once or twice in Europe, too, followed the lines of James’ body with his eyes, lowered his lashes and spoken softly, like a secret. It warmed James’ blood to see him do it, to hear him. 

And then he moved away and went back to his easel. 

James watched him go, Steven de Winter in his summer suit, across his vast library, and went back to his book a few moments later. He had to read from the top of his page once more, as his brain had clean forgotten the first few paragraphs there, holding the page open for a moment or two to ease its way.

It struck him then that this was a book Steven did not find appealing. Its stiff spine spoke to how little it had been used and, from there, it wasn’t so difficult to imagine whose book it must have been. He tried to keep reading it, though the excitement of it had soured a little, but found himself unable. Had her fingers traced the words as his did now? Had she placed a bookmark and set it down upon a table while Steven poured her tea?

He couldn’t make the words stay in his mind, read the same line over and over until he simply stared at a letter ‘t’ in ‘Saturn’ because it was right in front of him. Steven, busy at his easel thank goodness, didn’t notice at all.

***

At three that afternoon, Monty came back into the library. James had managed to begin his chapter over again and continue after a time, and so was approaching the end of his book alone. Steven had been pulled out on a call by Gabe, who’d come in maybe ten minutes before and told him he had someone on the line for him from London.

He’d left with a short apology and a brush of his hand over the back of James’ shoulder, and a promise that he’d be back soon. 

But, when Monty came back, James was still alone. 

“Alright, old chap,” he said, “fancy a look at your room?” 

James had an absurd moment where he wasn’t sure Monty meant _him._ It seemed so strange to him that someone with such poise as Monty should be showing James around, but he felt he should accept the offer all the same. 

“Sure,” he said. “Where’s it at?” 

Monty smiled.

“East wing,” he said. “Come on, I’ll show you the way.”

James checked his page number and closed the volume, not wanting to stress the spine too much, and then stood from the couch and followed Monty out. 

James wished he could have waited for Steven, so that they might go together, but it didn’t matter. They’d be back together again soon, and James held that in his head as something to look forward to. 

James and Monty walked together, through the stone of the empty hall, and James wondered if Monty was as aware of his mismatched footfalls as he was himself. He didn’t have much of an imbalance in his gait, but he could hear what little there was. His left foot, his whole left side lighter now, sometimes fell more quietly, and James tried not to hear a shuffling limp where he knew his footsteps were mostly even. It had taken him long enough to reach that point.

“Big, huh?” James asked, and Monty chuckled.

“Fairly so,” he answered. “There are bigger, of course, but this has always been plenty. We have parties from time to time. Sometimes we let the riffraff in for a look around.”

James looked at him, a little put off, until he saw that Monty was smiling. Not truly disparaging of the locals then, evidently. 

“I see,” James said, for lack of anything else to say, and tried not to behave like a visitor. 

He lived here now, but couldn’t help it. There were pictures hung high - old paintings - and the wallpaper was rich and dark. Here and there were weapons mounted out of arms’ reach, and dark paneling ran along every wall. There was even a decorative gong mounted above the paneling by one of the portraits. It was so opulent, so austere. He was sure he could learn to love it, at least mostly. He was fairly certain that, in time, the vastness of it would fade and he would come to see it as he’d come to see everywhere else he’d lived. 

“Portraits are all old owners,” Monty told him. “They go back to the 1750s, the pictures. There’s Charles Greenwood, over there,” and James looked, to find an oil painting of an old man with enormous sideburns and a shock of white hair frowning at him from a gilded frame. “He built the house and married Agatha, she’s next to him, although they married for money and not for love. She came to love him, apparently - not sure I could manage a feat like that - she says so in her letters to her sister, though Charles later fell from a horse and died - the village is named for him”

And James paused to look, to wonder at their faces and what kind of people they might have been. 

“After that is Jacob, their only son - Jacob married late but his wife was young. Three children, you know,” and James could see them in the next picture along. “Only Magdalene made it to adulthood though, that’s what happens without penicillin-”

There were more portraits as they went through the house, the family who’d inherited the house next, who were all portly and rosy-cheeked, a son in his christening clothes on the mother’s knee and the daughter with a doll beside her.

“William and Magdalene had Annabelle Virginia and James George, though they went by Ginny and J.G.,” Monty told him. “Ginny left the homestead for a farmhand, so they say, and lived happily ever after as some people are wont to do. Moved to Norwich, if I have my details straight-”

Or the next, after the gong, with their two daughters in crinoline-shaped gowns and their beagles alongside, who’d suffered great tragedy when the parents - the mother in white lace and ribbon and the father in a blue reefer jacket and dark jodhpurs - were killed in an accident.

“Although maybe Lilith set it herself,” Monty winked, nodding toward the woman in the painting who stood straight-backed and calm with her hand on his seat. “Everybody said J.G. was a womanizer, and she was devout as they come.”

James couldn’t imagine a life like the ones these people had lived, couldn’t imagine how to live a life in a house like this. It was so far removed from the parts of his own life that he remembered.

“- and then Grace, the elder daughter, and her husband, half-Welshman by the name of Madog Barking,” Monty continued. “The house changed its name again when it fell to him, which was unfortunate - Barking Mad, they used to call ‘em. There’s no accounting for taste, eh? Younger daughter died a spinster though she was very, very close with her maid, as they say,” another wink. “After that was Mad and Grace’s daughter, who married John M, and then he had a daughter Olivia, who was not your typical head of the household by any means. She married very late in life, married a James in fact, but she was carted out mad, after the fire up at…”

James trailed behind a little, listening to the stories of the various ancestors, and astounded by the vastness of it all. He couldn’t keep much of it in his head, but he did his best, and found that, with every picture that the ancestors came further toward the present in, he was more and more surprised by how real they seemed. By the time he reached the portrait of the family from 1890, they were almost photographs, and he could have sworn they felt familiar. Not that he’d known them, but that he’d heard of them somehow, perhaps. 

Monty’s voice, he realized, spoke no longer - he’d lost him somehow by dallying - and, mortified by his lack of manners, he hastened to follow. But, when next he turned a corner, he discovered he’d been left in the care of someone else. 

At the top of the stairs, wearing black this time, stood Miss Carter, her hands clasped. James wasn’t sure what to say to her as he reached her, and looked about for Monty, but he seemed to have well and truly left his post now there was someone to take over.

“I hope you weren’t waiting,” he said.

“I’m here at your leisure,” she answered, but this time she had no smile for him, not even a tight-lipped one. 

Instead, she turned and began to walk, and James followed her along a passage with carpeting, through a heavy oak door, down small stairs and up a corresponding flight, and then through another door halfway down a corridor. It seemed a strange route for them to take, but it was the only one James could be certain of, and so he followed until she pushed open the door down the corridor and stood aside to let him enter. 

It was, just as the library was, huge. There was a sofa, chairs, a desk, and beyond it a double bed with a gauzy canopy around. There were wide windows therein, and a bathroom attached, and so James stepped into the room and looked about. 

Taking it in, he passed to the window to look out over the eastern part of the house - with the lateness of the hour, the sun was heading down behind the other side of the house, so that he could see the great shadow of it cast before him. Below it, there was a stone terrace, and a rose garden, and a smooth grass bank beyond, that stretched to trees gathered in a forest. 

“We’re on the other side from the sea,” he said. “Right?”

“You can’t even hear it from here,” she answered. “Not from _this_ side.”

James frowned, saw the furrow of his own brow in his reflection, and turned to looks at her.

“Just thought it might be nice to hear, that’s all,” he said, not wanting to rile anyone. “I think I liked water, before. It’s a lovely room anyhow.”

“They all are,” she told him. 

“Well yeah,” he said, and tried to smile. “Certainly are from what I’ve seen.”

To this, she didn’t answer. He started to wish she’d leave, or else start a conversation. Her silent hovering was starting to make him uncomfortable. 

On the desk, there were some of James’ things. He was halfway mortified that he hadn’t been allowed to bring his own bags, but he supposed that was what having staff was for. His clothes were probably neat in the wardrobe and the doors by now, and his toiletries in the bathroom. He saw nothing, however, that he didn’t recognize, and wondered if Steven would be sharing the room. 

He wasn’t about to ask Miss Carter though.

She didn’t move, either, just stood by the door and watched him.

“Where is Steven’s room?” he asked instead, emboldened by her coolness. 

“It was in the west wing,” she said. “Before.”

James frowned. 

“These rooms weren’t used before?”

“No,” she said. “He’s never used the rooms in this wing.”

James watched her a moment longer, and then shook his head. If Steven had not used these rooms before, then it would be a room he’d never shared with his wife. He could imagine that was why he’d requested a move in the first place - it made sense. Except that he had put James in his own room, apart from him. 

Still she didn’t leave. James felt his disappointment rise a little.

“I guess you’ve been here with the house a while,” he said, trying to make conversation. 

“I guess,” she said, and it gave James discomfort - the words sounded wrong in her accent, a glaring irregularity where Monty might have said ‘I suppose.’ 

He couldn’t tell for sure, but it felt like an imitation of him. 

“Well,” he said, and she stood where she stood, and stared at him with a look in her eye that felt like nothing so much as scorn. “I’m sure we’ll get along just fine.”

“Is there anything I can do for you?” she said, not so much a question as an end to the conversation.

“No,” James answered, because even if there had been, he wouldn’t want her to do it. “Thank you.”

She turned, took two steps, and James had just long enough to sigh in relief before she paused.

“This room’s desk is smaller,” she said. “The doorways and rooms on this side of the house are smaller, the desk could not be moved from the west wing.”

“Right,” James said. “I’m sure I’ll be just as happy in this room as I would have been in the old one.”

“I was told these rooms were chosen specifically,” she answered. “Over the larger rooms in the west wing. They have higher ceilings and longer floors. The master is the most beautiful room in the house - the windows look down across the lawns to the cliffside and the sea beyond.”

James didn’t know why it made him uncomfortable that she should tell him all this, just as he couldn’t understand why she was still present and still talking. He could grasp the implication of her words easily. This room was smaller, darker, not as beautiful - she was being disparaging, trying to imply that this was somehow inferior. 

“I guess he keeps the pretty ones to show the public, huh?” he tried, one last-ditch attempt to start a reasonable conversation.

“The public are not allowed upstairs,” she said. 

He narrowed his eyes a little, and she gave him that same cold, tight little smile. 

“If that will be all,” she said, and stepped out of the room before he had chance to answer. 

He frowned after her for a few moments. These rooms had been chosen - smaller, away from the sea, unused. They hadn’t even been a place Steven favored before they’d come to live in them. James didn’t have time to be sorry for himself for long - Monty, it seemed, had come to pick up where she left off, for he heard the footsteps coming up the hallway - but the thoughts lingered in his mind.

“Ah,” Monty said after a knock, as he stuck his head inside the door she’d left ajar. “There you are, old boy. You, er…found everything alright?”

“Sure,” James answered, feeling some of the tension dissipate. “It’s a real nice room.”

“Yes, isn’t it just?” Monty said as he came in. “Was a guest room at one point, you know. Always thought it perfectly lovely, though.”

Monty talked like he was telling family secrets, and James enjoyed his company much more than Miss Carter’s. 

“It is,” he said. “Just wonderful. Where is Steven’s room?” 

“Ah!” Monty answered. “It’s the next one down, come on. We’ll take a look.”

And so Monty led him out of the room and down along the corridor to the next. It was very similar, as things stood, to James’, though perhaps slightly smaller, and James didn’t go too far in. He wasn’t yet sure he should be looking (although if Monty had shown him to it, he must be meant to see it).

It wasn’t long after that that more footsteps approached at a jog, passed by, and then came back, and Steven came in through the door a moment later. 

“Oh,” he said. “There you are,” but he didn’t seem upset to see either of them, so it must be alright to be in here. “Did you see your room?” 

“Yeah,” James nodded. “It’s great. Beautiful.”

“Good,” Steven said, nodding. “I wasn’t sure how far from me you’d want to be.”

James glanced at Monty before he looked at Steven once more. 

“It’s great, really,” he said. “It’ll be just swell like that.”

Steven nodded.

“Good,” he said. “Good. Well! How about we go for a walk, you and me? It doesn’t look like rain, and then I can show you round a little. We can take Captain with us, he can take a run around, whaddya think?” 

“I think that sounds like a good way to work up an appetite,” James said, and Steven’s mouth ticked up at the corner. 

“Come on,” he said, “you too Monty?” 

“Oh, I,” Monty said, shaking his head as he smiled. “No, I’ll head back downstairs. Enjoy the gardens.”

Steven waited for him to go, and then held out his elbow, for James to take. 

“Come on,” he said softly. “The roses are just starting to come out.”

~

It was beginning to turn to evening as they wandered through the rose garden, and James kept his arm in Steven’s as they walked. Steven hadn’t said much by way of being in love - he’d mentioned feeling his emotions greatly, and James couldn’t imagine he’d invite every man back to Midwood, but it was nice to be somewhere worry didn’t need to be a constant companion.

Steven threw a stick for Captain whenever he returned it, and spoke to him in German to provide commands, which the dog obeyed. 

“He was picked up as a pup just over the border in France,” Steven told him, roughing his free hand through the fur on Captain’s neck while Captain’s tongue lolled out, a grin if ever James had seen one on a dog. “Already knew his words, must have escaped from somewhere. Didn’t see any need to leave him where he was, did we, huh? Huh? _Nein, braver Junger. Wir haben für Sie ein schönes, neues Zuhause gefunden, ja?_ Of course we…we know what dogs like Captain were used for but we got him early. Didn’t we? _Nicht wahr?_ Yes, we did.” And then he picked up the stick again and brought his arm back. “Go on!” he said. _“Bring!”_ And threw it. 

It went….quite a ways in fact, and Captain went racing off ahead after it. 

“When the weather’s a little warmer, we’ll have coffee under the chestnut in the afternoon. And we can go down to the water if you like, you can put your feet in the sand. It’s another nice place for a picnic.”

James thought of it as Steven said it - stretched out on the grass, perhaps with a book in hand, or Steven with his paints. Had he painted there with Rebecca? Had they stretched out on the grass together and shared picnics on the beach in the sun?

“Where does the land end?” James asked. “For Midwood?” 

“It goes all the way down to the beach,” Steven answered. “And out into the forest that way. The woods, that you can see from your room.”

And James scraped his teeth over his lower lip. 

“Am I…” he said, and then wished he’d thought through more clearly what he wanted to say before he’d tried to say it.

“Go on?” Steven said, still walking slowly with his arm in James’. 

James wondered for a moment what might happen if he tripped, now that his only arm was occupied, but he realized a moment later that Steven would catch him. 

“Our rooms are close,” he said. 

“I told you,” Steven answered. “You only need ask, I don’t have to be so close.”

“No, but I mean…I mean the bed. In my room.” And he felt himself flush. “It’s much too big for me.”

Steven frowned.

“If…If you mean you think you’ll be uncomfortable-”

“No,” James said. “Not at all, only. You said that we. Could be safe here.”

“Ah,” he said, and he looked down at their feet. “No, that’s alright. I thought I should give you the larger. And that way, if and when you feel ready, we can share it. You wouldn’t have to move from a room you’d grown used to and…it would be your decision, then, to let me in.”

James pictured it - could no more help picturing it because he was with Steven than he could help smelling the roses that were blooming around them just by virtue of being in amongst them. He thought of them in nightshirts, huddled close in the winter when the house was cold, Steven’s arm about his shoulders, James’ head pillowed on his chest. But nobody wore nightshirts these days - Steven would certainly have pajamas, blue to match his eyes, or cream to match his skin, with white trim or black. James would have them too - perhaps black with white, and they’d have dressing gowns that tied about the waist, and they could lather their jaws with badger brushes and shave side by side at the sink. 

In summer, there’d be no need for nightshirts, and- 

James nearly choked, furiously red in an instant, faltering on his next step. 

“Only if ever you were ready,” Steven hastened to add and, just as James had thought, his right hand had come up to stop James from falling.

Only that meant it was pressed to James’ breast, right over his beating heart, with only a shirt and undershirt to separate them. Steven’s hand was a brand of heat, much as his inner elbow was through both their jackets, enough that James felt the cold far more keenly there when he took it away a moment later. 

“I’m sorry,” Steven said, but James shook his head.

“No,” he said, “I…I would like that. I’d like that very much. E-Eventually.”

Steven nodded, and waited for James to take the first step before resuming their pace.

“So would I,” he said, confiding, and James couldn’t bite back the smile. 

“I wanted to ask,” he said, “you haven’t….that is, you haven’t kissed me. Except on my head in the Library.”

“Good God, so I did,” Steven muttered, and James laughed at him - couldn’t hold it back.

Steven laughed too, in response, until it built between them, until they had to stand still and let go of each other while it overtook them. It was absurd - a week ago they’d been in Europe and a month ago he’d been Howard’s Man. Now he was here, all but the second Mr de Winter. 

Steven pulled him a little closer and ducked his head down to James’ as their laugher faded, so that he could look into James’ eyes, his own sparkling. 

“You’re right,” he said. “I haven’t kissed you. I wasn’t sure what you’d make of it. Would you like me to?” he murmured, and James glanced at his lips, full and pink, and then found Steven’s gaze with his own again.

He nodded, just a little, and wet his lips.

“I…think I would,” he said, and so, as simply as that, Steven did. 

He moved his head slowly forward, tilting it to move so that they’d fit together, and brought his chin forward to meet James’ lips with his own. At the same time, his hands moved. James expected his usual stance - one hand to cup James’ elbow and the other at his waist but, instead, Steven brought one hand to James’ shoulder and drew it inward, upward, until his palm cupped the back of James’ head, and his thumb rested below James’ ear. 

The other arm he brought around James’ body at his waist to hold him close, supporting James’ lower back while his palm pressed between James’ shoulderblades. James couldn’t have moved if he tried and, instinctively, he tried to bring his arms up, too. Only one of them remained, which he remembered only when he felt the lapel of Steven’s jacket under his right hand but not his left.

Steven made it almost chaste. Slow and gentle, he pressed his lips to James’ and held them there a moment, warm and soft. James had only a moment to wish he’d put his own hand in Steven’s hair too, before Steven was drawing away from him. James hadn’t meant to close his eyes, but opened them to find that Steven’s lashes were sweeping upward also. 

For a moment, time seemed to stand still around them both, and then a slow smile curved Steven’s lips, he breathed out slowly, his eyes half-closed.

Captain chose that moment to come bounding back, stick in his mouth and, though he was patient and simply sat by them both, it brought them out of the moment enough that they knew it was passing. Steven took a step back, and linked their arms once more, and they began to walk again together.

He threw the stick for Captain and, a few moments later, James felt all the belated giddiness of the moment they’d shared bubble up inside of him. It swept him sideways just a little, made him laugh all over again, and so they walked shoulder to shoulder through the roses with the gravel crunching beneath their feet in the golden late afternoon sun.

***

Later, when they’d taken their evening meal (James was happy to note that the meal was informal, taken in the library together much like tea had been), Dum Dum - because he’d insisted they refer to him as such - lit a fire in the fireplace.

Steven’s painting - a picture of the view from James’ room in Monte done in watercolor - stood drying on the easel, and Steven himself sat at the other end of the couch, a pillow behind his head, a small volume in his hands. He turned the pages regularly, and James turned his own on the music stand.

“How’d you get on with Peg, everything okay?” he asked, and James looked at him, fronwing.

“Peg?” he asked.

“Peggy,” Steven tried to clarify and, seeing it hadn’t helped much, continued, “Carter?”

“Oh!” James answered. “Oh, well. She…seemed to be. Reasonable, I suppose?”

“What?” Steven said, a furrow on his own brow. “What do you mean reasonable?”

“Well, she…I-I mean, she seemed a little stiff. You know? Maybe she thought I was gonna get in her way.”

“I can’t imagine she would?” Steven said, sounding puzzled. “You want I should talk to her?”

“Oh, nono,” James answered, trying to sound unaffected, offhand. “No, I’m sure we’ll get on better once we know each other more. She probably just…doesn’t know what to do with me now. You know?”

“Hmm,” Steven answered, but he said no more about it. 

In any case, now that Steven was with him, it didn’t seem so big a thing as it had in the afternoon. When Steven was with him, he didn’t notice the strangeness of his footsteps, didn’t feel so oddly out of place. With Steven with him, he felt more like the man he’d wanted to be in Monte - more that he could be a second Mr de Winter of sorts. Worthy, perhaps, of taking Rebecca’s place.

He was happy that evening, too - it was the first, after all. They’d barely been back any time at all, and Steven had pictures to show Monty and Dum Dum, and Jim when he showed up a little later. Gabe and Jacques weren’t long after that, and it was so nice to spend an evening in company that didn’t expect them to be dressed just-so or to speak in a certain manner. Nobody stared at James with disdain like the waiters had until they’d seen him with Steven, and Miss Carter did not return - out with her friend, Martinelli, apparently, so he didn’t need to worry about her. 

After all of that, when most had made their way to bed, Steven and James sat in the library with their books, and James put his hand on Alpine’s coat between his page-turning. It was new for them to sit together after dinner - in Italy they’d wandered or walked or driven around, gone to cafés and leaned over bridges. But this, James thought, this must be Steven’s routine. To sit in the library and read books with the animals. 

There came to James a thought then, unbidden - he was not the first to sit here. He sat in this chair where Rebecca de Winter had once also rested, and drank his coffee from the same cups, poured from the same pot. He shivered, as though someone had opened the door behind him, and the flames, as if in sympathy, guttered for a moment in the fireplace. He was sitting in Rebecca de Winter’s chair, reading her book on her music stand in her library, and the cat had curled up by his knee because that had been its custom, and it remembered in the past, that she had tended to him there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stately homes really did used to be used as makeshift hospitals during the wars.


	5. Cards and Lavender

He slept badly that first night. It wasn’t so strange that he should, he usually did. Howard told him it likely came from being on watch, from looking after his younger sister, from any number of things. 

He dreamed that there was someone with him in the room, who stood in the corner where the light from the moon did not reach. He thought at first that it must be Steven but it was not and, through the gauzy curtain around his bed, he could not make out their features. The figure came closer as he blinked, without moving its feet, and still he could not make out its face.

In his dream, the coverlet on the bed was yellow, and the air smelled like gunpowder and, when he sat up to pull back the curtain, his arm was bloody at his side, and mangled. 

He woke to an empty room, pulling back his curtain to check, and slept fitfully the rest of the night.

***

“In once sense I guess I oughta be grateful,” Steven said over breakfast the next morning. “I don’t got a ton of people who’ll wanna meet you. You’ve met ‘em all already, close enough.”

James knew, somehow, that men who lived in houses like Midwood didn’t really breakfast like this. Men in houses like Midwood came down to full spreads put out on sideboards. They had their pick of food that was hot and fresh, and they took what they wanted and left the rest either for servants or the trash. But not here, not at Midwood. Not Steven. Once James had washed, and wiped the condensation and fingerprints from his mirror, he shaved, and then discovered Steven had waited outside his bedroom until James had come in search of someone who might help with his tie. He then tied it for him as he had every day of their time together that James had worn a tie, close and intimate without any expectation.

Steven didn’t seen the type to need a full spread.

They were at a small table, almost like the one they’d shared in the café in France, and Steven was eating a boiled egg. Or, at least, James thought he was - when he’d topped it and cut his toast into soldiers, he stood and switched their plates, handing James the salt and pepper. 

James gaped at his meal for a moment, and then found himself distracted when Steven put half a teaspoon of sugar into his coffee but a full teaspoon into James’.

“I can manage sugar in my coffee,” James said, and Steven startled and then looked admonished.

“Of course,” he said. “I’m sorry.” 

“No,” James answered. “Just…It’s nice, actually. That you remembered my egg. And the soldiers. You don’t need to trouble yourself.”

“James,” he said softly, shaking his head a little, a pained expression furrowing his brow as he ducked a little. 

But they said no more about it, and breakfast went on as though they’d been eating at this table together for years. James momentarily entertained his desire for a croissant, but he didn’t want to put the staff out at all, and could easily do without one. 

“I have to see to a couple of things,” Steven told him softly. “I’d rather not do it today, but you know. Duty calls.”

James felt his stomach sink.

They’d shared such a lovely kiss in the rose garden yesterday, he’d hoped today would be just as leisurely. Perhaps they’d walk together to the sea or through to the forest, and come back with noses red and appetites worked up after perhaps sharing another.

“Will you be out all day?” James asked, and Steven cocked his head.

“No?” he said. “Only sorta after breakfast, I wanna be back for lunch. You know I can eat.”

This last he said with a smile, for it was true - Steven ate just as much as James did, if not more, and what James got through was impressive enough. 

“Nice not to have any rations,” Steven muttered as he started on his second egg, and James hurried to catch up. 

There was even _bacon_ , and Steven seemed to be happy to divide it equally between them.

“Listen,” he said eventually, when they’d both had three eggs and polished the bacon off - James was eating the last piece of toast at Steven’s behest. “It’s…not so much duty that’ll have me out this morning.”

James looked at him, uncertain.

“What do you mean?” he said, and Steven shook his head. 

“I mean, I’ll be talking to a doctor,” he answered. “About you -” and then he grew an inch or two, bringing his hands up to placate “n-not for anything serious just...” and then he subsided again. “I wanted to speak to someone to see if there’s anything I could be doing to help you. You know?”

James tried his best to smile but it didn’t work, not really, and he dropped Steven’s gaze. They’d discussed that in Monaco and agreed that it would be useful for Steven to have any information James’ doctors could provide, but it was still not news he’d expected to hear. Not so soon.

“Oh,” he said. 

Another thing that separated the two of them from the men they’d been in Monaco. There, they’d been carefree and without obligation. Now, they were people - one in control of himself, and the other with nothing but his name and vague pictures in his memories. 

But Steven reached across the table and brushed his fingertips over James’ knuckles.

“I don’t want to change you,” Steven told him, “I don’t want you to be anything except who you are. But if I can help you?” 

And here he sounded so earnest that James couldn’t help but to look up at him.

“If I can help you, I’ll give anything,” he said. “You understand that, right?”

James nodded.

Steven’s smile was a little rueful, but still warm in its affection. 

“And anyway, I won’t be long,” he said. “Only until lunch. You- You might have a wander around, get to know the place. You can head into my room if you feel like it - I don’t mind.”

James nodded a little. 

“I might,” he said, because he wasn’t certain. 

Part of him wanted to, but part of him wanted to be everywhere with Steven, and nowhere without him. If he couldn’t wander the gardens with Steven by his side, he’d rather be back in the library waiting for him, perhaps reading another of Rebecca’s books.

Steven left shortly after breakfast, and James sat there still with another cup of coffee. He thought of the afternoon, when he and Steven might walk to the chestnut and play fetch with Captain for a while, or the evening when he might ask Steven to read to him from another volume. He’d finished the first shortly before it had been time for bed, and had been interested to learn it was the first of a series - enough to keep him busy for a time, then. 

It wasn’t until Jim came in that he realized it must be past ten. He got to his feet immediately and he seemed surprised. James didn’t know if Jim was there to clear the table or to set a fire, but he felt mortified suddenly.

“Was it all right for you, Sir?” Jim said, and James managed to give some fumbling confirmation before he fled.

Why was it he should feel so lost without Steven there? And yet, even in just the afternoon and morning he had been at Midwood, he knew it was so.

The library seemed much larger without Steven there, and colder, too, despite the sun. Captain wasn’t by the fireside, nor Alpine in the window, and Monty surprised him in there not three minutes later, a newspaper tucked under his arm. 

“Oh,” he said. “I say, isn’t there anything I can do for you? Set a fire if you need one, no?” 

“I don’t want to cause you any undue trouble,” James answered. “I’m not…I don’t mean to get in the way.”

Monty tilted his head and pressed his lips together, and narrowed his eyes a little in thought.

“You know you’re welcome here, don’t you?” he said gently. “You’re not putting anyone out just by being here.”

And a sharp little voice in the back of James’ mind murmured, _except Miss Carter_ , but he didn’t say as much out loud. 

“And you and the Captain…” Monty continued. “Listen, he might’ve been blue-ticketed by our COs if they’d known-” James felt himself blush instantly “-but that doesn’t wash with us here. And alright, Dum Dum took a little time to come around but the rest of us? Gabe and Jim know persecution plenty, thanks, and I saw enough in boarding school before I ever reached the barracks not to pay it any mind. Jacques never cared a jot and Miss Carter has her own proclivities.”

“I,” James said, shaking his head. 

The way Monty talked was kind but the words swirled in his mind in a different way. 

“Sorry, old boy, don’t listen to me prattling on,” Monty said, but he said it gently, not quite a commiseration but perhaps an apology. “If you like, I can tell you a little about the place instead?”

But James shook his head. His mind had already lost its grip on the various subjects of the house’s portraits, and he wasn’t sure of the layout at all.

“No,” he said. “I…I’m not sure how much of it I’d understand.”

Monty smiled at him just as ruefully as Steven had at breakfast.

“Of course,” he said kindly - how much could a man with no memory retain anyway. “Of course.”

***

The morning room was easy enough to find, but only once he’d found it. It took him long enough in the first place because Steven hadn’t shown it to him. Steven had barely had chance to show him anything, in fact, and James could have asked Monty, except that Monty had left him to do something else. The house seemed so big, and he couldn’t remember where he’d grown up as a child, but this felt ridiculous instinctively.

Every now and again, he’d see something that reminded him - he lived here, in this enormous place. This was where he belonged, now, at least for the foreseeable future. And so, after wandering in the wrong direction at least twice, he found it - barely out of sight from the library, if he’d known which way to go in the first place.

James’ heart lifted a little when he walked into the morning room and found Alpine there, sitting on the table in the window next to a vase of rhododendrons, bright red. It was a beautiful room, in pale blues and white but, all at once, far too elegant. Perfect in carefully-chosen simplicity, masquerading as accidentally exquisite.

Meant for a wife, not a husband. 

Meant for Rebecca. 

It was her desk stocked with her papers, a fireplace before which she had sat. The fire here was low, but lit, which meant that this, too must be routine at this time of the morning, and the room was even colder than the library had been. He didn’t wish to sit in her chairs or before her fireplace. But…

He ought to write to Howard. He ought to write to his sister - especially if this was to be where he lived. She, on the other side of the Atlantic, on the other side of the States from where they’d grown. He had no idea how long it would take to reach her, and only had vague recollections of sending platitudes home in the war. Loose lips sink ships, and so he recalled being able to thank her for the socks she sent and bemoan missing her birthday. Anything else - his location, his action, even the weather - had all been forbidden.

He stood by the writing table and examined it without touching. There was a paperweight, which would be useful without a spare hand to steady the paper, made of Venetian murano glass, whose colors matched the wallpaper and the furnishings. Had he taken her to Venice as he’d taken James? Was that where this had come from? Or had it been a wedding gift, perhaps, or given for a birthday?

An absurd part of him wanted to put the thing away, but he left it.

The leather blotter was dark and gilded at its edges, and the burl wood of the desk was polished almost to a mirror shine, but this was not a place for fancy. The pigeon-holes were carefully labeled in neat capitals. They did not seem as fluid or free as the dedication in Steven’s book of poetry but they must be from the same hand anyway. 

A pen, black and shining, sat next to the blotter, and he lifted his hand and tugged gently at the handle of a drawer. When it came open, rich, cream notepaper lay within, unmarked like snow on a winter’s morning. He didn’t even know if he could write a letter properly now - his handwriting, little more than a scrawl as far as he saw it would be little more than blemishes on such fine paper, and he felt like he ought to keep it. Paper like this should be treated carefully, this he knew. It ought to be used by hands which loved it, or else at least by hands that knew how to treat it, and he felt strange for looking at it. He felt that he should take some to keep it safe, that he should set some aside. He felt as though she might walk through the door at any time and demand to know what he was doing in her house, felt as though she stood behind him waiting, hoping to see him try and fail.

But he shook his head. It was ridiculous to be put off by the furniture, by the niceness of the place around him, or by some nebulous idea that Miss Carter might not approve. He lived here, didn’t he? He pulled a sheet of notepaper from the drawer and uncapped the pen - the nib was bright and beautiful, and he looked at it a moment before he wrote, wondering if his scrawl would bend the metal. 

‘Dear Howard,’ he began, and wrote haltingly, not knowing what to say. 

He hoped that Howard’s journey had been uneventful, that Los Angeles found him well. He spoke of the people he’d met and the huge house in which he now resided and, when he was done, he blotted the ink from the paper and folded it in half as best he could, tucking it into an envelope that he addressed with more stilted scrawl. He was learning to keep to the lines well, at least. 

He’d take the letter with him, not knowing how to send a letter from a house like Midwood - perhaps he could ask Monty.

When the telephone rang, it startled him so badly that he banged his knuckles on the drawer handle, loud enough that it rattled his nerves, and the Venetian glass paperweight tumbled from the desk with a heavy thud. He had a right to be here, he had every right to be in this room. He had every right to answer the telephone, too, and so he did.

“Who’s there?” he said, his voice a rasp. “What is it?”

And, for a moment, there was silence aside from the slow breaths of someone listening for an answer at the other end. The ringing of the bell inside the telephone seemed to hang in the air, to linger in his ears, and he frowned.

“Hello?” he said.

 _“Hello?”_ asked the voice on the other end, low and harsh and hard to distinguish, cutting out as it spoke. 

“Who’s this?” he said.

 _“Who’s this?”_ the voice replied, though the line was bad and the voice unsteady.

James narrowed his eyes though he couldn’t be seen. 

“Barnes,” he said. “What do you want?”

 _“Mr de Winter?”_ the voice asked. 

“No,” James answered. “He is out on business.”

 _“Mr de Winter,”_ the voice repeated, alongside a strange buzzing sound on the other end of the telephone call, the words half garbled. _“Mr de Winter?”_

“I told you already, he ain’t here,” James answered.

And then there was a pause, which seemed to stretch for far too long, and the line went dead.

Bucky took the receiver away from his ear and looked at it. He shook his head and put it back - whatever madness had possessed the person calling, it was nothing to do with him. If they wanted to speak to Steven, they’d either have to telephone again on his return or leave a message with someone else. 

He put the receiver back down.

He looked once more at the papers on the desk when the telephone rang again, and he lifted the receiver to his ear with a frown.

“Hello?” he said. 

_“Mr de Winter,”_ it was the garbled voice again. 

“I told you he’s out on business. If you want him, you’ll have to call this afternoon.”

The voice said nothing at all for a moment.

And then, 

_“Becky?”_

James clenched his jaw. It was such a strange voice, low and deep and rough - it half sounded like Steven’s but he’d know Steven’s voice anywhere.

“Mrs de Winter is dead,” he answered, his irritation causing a lance of pain in his temple, “she’s been dead for over a year. If you’ve nothing smart to say to me, you can call this afternoon and talk to someone else.”

And he put the receiver down again, hard this time - he’d played this game once, and wasn’t prepare to play it again. But it rang again, almost instantly. 

He snatched it back up before it could even finish its first ring.

“Look here, I already told you twice-” he said, but someone was talking over top of him, someone different from the voice before. 

_“-rge, d’you wanna- oh. I’m sorry?”_. 

“What?” James said, mortification sweeping over him. “Who is this?” 

_“I said it’s Jim, Sir, you, uh… You okay?”_

“What?” he said breathlessly. “What? Yes. I mean. Yes, I’m fine. I’m fine, I’m sorry. What…”

He passed his hand over his eyes. 

_“I’m calling through to ask you about lunch, Sir, just got a couple questions - are you alright having what’s set out, and is it going to be just you?”_

James blinked at the cradle of the telephone. 

“What’s set out?” he asked. 

_“Uh, there’s a, uh. There’s a list on the writing desk.”_

James frowned, and twisted to look. 

There was a list on the writing desk, on the side of the blotter. He must have been turned away from it, distracted by the notepaper, and he picked it up and looked at it curiously.

“Lunch on a menu,” he said. “Is that the usual around here?”

Jim chuckled. 

_“Gotta stick to tradition, Sir,”_ he answered, and James chewed the inside of his cheek for a second or two.

“Right,” he said. 

Written on the ‘menu’ was corned beef hash and a chocolate tart. 

“The…” he said, and flipped the paper over to see if he was missing something. “The hash and the tart?”

 _“That gonna be okay for you, Sir?”_ Jim said by way of confirmation, and James squinted at it.

“Yeah?” he said. “Steven said he’d be back.”

 _“Okay,”_ Jim said. _“Call me up if you need anything.”_

“Right,” James said, and Jim put down the phone on his end.

James carefully put the phone back in its cradle, and then stared at it, paper menu in his hand. He stared for ten seconds, twenty, thirty, a minute, two minutes. 

He took a step, and his foot hit something heavy, and he looked down to find _half_ of the complicated glass paperweight. His blood turned to ice and his face flamed. The other half was a foot or so away from it, the thing split clean down the middle. In a moment of panic, he picked up both, tried to fit them together as though it might magically make them whole again, and then put both halves in the waste paper basket and covered them over. He was such a fool, he was so stupid. He covered his mouth with his hand and shut his eyes, and turned away from it. Regardless of whose the paperweight had been - though there could be little doubt considering its location - he was here now. James was to be Steven’s companion, and it was nothing but colored glass, a trinket. 

If it was broken, it was something of his that he had broken, because it belonged to the house. He tried to put it out of his mind, but felt guilt and shame burn the back of his neck.

He’d tell Steven. That was what he’d do - he’d wait until this evening, when it was just the two of them in the library. 

_By the way, Steven, I’m terribly sorry but there was a mishap with that paperweight. Which one? The one in the morning room, on the writing desk._ And Steven would brush it off as nothing. It would be over in an instant. 

His mind made up, he settled in to write to his sister.

The telephone did not ring again.

***

After he’d written his letter to his sister, James decided he was leaving the morning room, regardless of there being a fire therein, regardless of Alpine being present.

“Hey, kitty,” he said on his way out. “You comin’?” 

Alpine looked at him curiously and then decided the answer was a clear no, going back to staring out of the window with one fluffy white tail twitch. 

“Suit yourself,” he muttered, and went out into the hallway. 

What were people supposed to do in a house like this? In a _life_ like this? Spend all day wandering the grounds like a Jane Austen character? 

And he could understand if Steven went hunting on the grounds during the summer, if he went sailing on the water. He didn’t know if you could go riding around here, but he’d bet you could. Open English grassland like this? You’d be a fool not to. But what in hell was _James_ meant to do? He couldn’t ride, or operate a shotgun, or sail a boat, with one arm. He could perhaps take up painting, like Steven? Or…

Writing maybe? Writing appealed to him - he liked science fiction, and he’d tried his hand at poetry once or twice, although he couldn’t remember ever producing anything he’d liked. Perhaps he had, once, but it wasn’t one of the things he could recall. Unbidden, the dedication of Steven’s book came back to him. _It’s evident that I’m no poet, for if any face could stir the endless love in my heart to poetry in my fingers, it would be yours._ The idea of poetry sank like a stone in his stomach. Perhaps he should have bought that book in Monte after all.

He’d think about it anyway, perhaps see if there was a notebook he could carry with him. It had always seemed like a nice idea, he thought, carrying a notebook. A place to put the excess when one’s thoughts spilled over. He’d been encouraged, in fact, to do so, when he’d first been in recovery and, though he’d found it less than helpful, it might be of some use to him now. If only to draw a map, to begin with. 

He was back in the corridor when he heard the sound of an engine and the crunch of wheels on gravel. There was a clock in every room, so he put his head back into the morning room - just about noon, which would make sense, given that Steven said he’d be back by lunch. Was noon lunch in a ridiculously huge English manor? Maybe they took lunch at one, how the hell was he meant to know. 

He knew the way back to the library now, and from there the entrance was close. Except that he found, when he reached it, that Monty and Gabe were outside already, and Steven was getting out of his car. With Miss Carter. And a woman James didn’t know. 

“…but he won’t know who you are,” Steven was saying, and James descended the front steps as he closed the car door behind him.

Carter had been driving, evidently, with the woman James didn’t know alongside, and Steven in back. The woman was about Carter’s height, with dark hair in ringlets about her face - not as dark as Peggy’s but nowhere near as light at Steven’s dirty blond. She wore a cream blouse and a pale blue skirt, with kitten heels and a purse that matched them. Carter’s outfit was wide wintergreen trousers and a white shirt, and she did not have a purse.

Steven noticed him instantly.

“Hey,” he said, one hand lingering on the car door. “Hi. You have a good morning?”

“I wrote to Howard and my sister,” James answered, still frowning, and he pulled the letter from his pocket to show Steven.

“Oh!” Steven answered, walking forward to take it from him. “Give ‘em here, I’ll take it to the post the next time I’m in the village. Tomorrow alright for you?”

“Pal, these hafta cross the Atlantic,” James answered as Steven came up next to him. “If it couldn’t wait a day, I’d call international.”

“That’s- Okay,” Steven muttered, nodding with a wry grin on his pretty mouth as he tucked the letter into his inside pocket. “Yeah, you got a point.”

“Don’t I always?” he asked, because the words sprung unbidden to his lips, and all three of them - Carter, Steven _and_ their friend - looked straight at him immediately.

He felt the smile fall off his face, took a step back without thinking of it. Carter and the woman looked away again hurriedly, but Steven’s expression turned soft, apologetic.

“Sorry,” he said, glancing at the other two. “It’s just, I don’t know that I’ve heard you make more than one or two jokes since I met you in Monte and…” he smiled sheepishly. “You do always seem to have a point.”

“Right,” James said. “Who’s this?” 

Because he could be bold, couldn’t he? If Steven were bringing someone new to the house that they lived in? In social standing, Steven kept insisting, he was the second Mr de Winter so wasn’t it his right to ask?

“Sure,” Steven answered. “Sorry - James, this is Ms Angie Martinelli.”

“Hey,” she grinned, marching up the steps towards him with her hand outstretched. “Brooklyn and English here tell me you’re the new face around town.”

Bucky shook her hand because it was automatic to reach out and shake, and frowned as the name registered - Martinelli, the woman Miss Carter had been out with yesterday. 

“I,” he said. “Yeah.”

Miss Martinelli didn’t seem put off by it. 

“Great,” she said. “I’m Angie.”

“I’m,” he said, and looked to Steven. “James?”

“Good to meetcha, Brooklyn,” she said, and James blinked as she walked past.

“Brooklyn?” he said. “Wait, _Brooklyn?_ ”

Steven glanced at Miss Carter.

“She knows where you’re from,” Steven said eventually, but James shook his head.

“You’re Brooklyn too?” he asked, and Steven’s mouth dropped open. 

“Uh,” he said.

“That’s okay, I’ll call you Irish,” Angie said to Steven, but James couldn’t look away from him. 

“I grew up in Brooklyn,” Steven said very slowly. “Shall we go inside?”

“I think that might be best,” Miss Carter said, but James put a hand on Steven’s arm.

“Wait,” he said, and Steven looked at him. 

“I plan to,” he said, “but after we’re all inside.”

James searched Steven’s face with his gaze, frowning incredulously.

“You’re from Brooklyn” he said, and Steven shook his head, brought his hands up to their usual places at James’ elbow and his waist. “You didn’t tell me, this whole ti- Are you lying to me?”

“No,” he said. “I’d ask Monty and Gabe to back me up but I’m bettin’ you don’t know you can trust the two of them either. Listen, I’m going to take the ladies to the Morning Room ‘cause there’s a fire lit in there by now, I’m sure, and then you and I can go sit in the library and you can talk to me if you want, but the short version is this - I grew up in Brooklyn, my mother raised me. After Brooklyn, I went to war like a good number of the men in America and unlike a lot of men who deserved it more than I do, I lived through it.”

Monty stepped up next to them both and set a hand on Steven’s forearm.

“Steady on, Cap, six two, remember?”

“What?” James said, looking at Monty now. 

Monty looked at him, looked up at Steven, and then back at James. 

“He’s six foot two,” Monty said softly. “Didn’t used to be, got quite the growth spurt.” And then he looked at Steven and, to James’ astonishment, gave him what sounded more like a warning than a reminder. “Tends to forget how big he is, don’t you, Sir?”

Steven breathed out very slowly through his nose and took a step back from James. 

“Yes,” he said, and had the good grace to look sheepish about it. “I’m sorry. All of you, I’m sorry.”

“Honestly,” Miss Carter said, “sometimes it’s a wonder you manage to put your shoes on the right feet. I’ll take Angie through, you two join us when you’re ready.”

“Want me to get the bags?” Gabe asked, and Steven passed a hand over his forehead.

“No,” he said. “It’s alright, Gabe, thank you - you head on in.”

Gabe and Monty went past them both, after Miss Carter and Miss Martinelli, and James and Steven stood there in the sunshine with the birds singing in the trees and the distant whisper of the beach hanging in the air. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” James asked, and Steven’s shoulders sagged. 

“You’d be more comfortable in the library,” he said. “I’ll tell you, but let’s go in. Alright?”

James narrowed his eyes but took a step back, and then turned to walk into the house.

“There’s a lot about me I can’t tell you,” Steven said as he followed James inside. “The men who are here - Dum Dum and Monty and Jim and Gabe and Jacques - they worked with me during the war. But I can’t tell you why.”

“What?” James said, stopping mid-step to look at him. “You _can’t tell me?_ What is it, classified?”

“Yes, if you weren’t there at the time,” Steven answered. “There was a figurehead - an icon. They took a man and made him faster, stronger, better. Average Joe and they made him a leader. You remember any of that?”

“What?” James asked. “No?”

“Right,” Steven answered. “Figures you wouldn’t.”

They began to walk again, and James felt strange about it - as though he wanted to take Steven’s arm for comfort but didn’t want to take his arm out of anger. It was so simple, it was only Brooklyn. But why hadn’t Steven told him? 

When they reached the Library, Steven held out a hand for James to enter first. 

“There’s a lot I can’t tell you, James,” Steven said softly. “I’ve had advice from your doctors, the ones Howard told me to talk to,” Which James knew - that was where he’d been this morning, “and there’s more still that I couldn’t tell you besides.” James knew that, too - Howard wouldn’t tell him war stories in case he implanted the memories, but it was frustrating as all get-out. “But what I can tell you is that, firstly, I was born to a single mother in Brooklyn and raised there by her until she died, secondly, I fought in the same war as you, and thirdly I care very much about you.”

James didn’t take a seat until Steven did, and even then he sat at the other end of the couch. He didn’t feel betrayed by it as such, because he hadn’t thought to ask. But he had _told Steven_ what he could remember, and Steven hadn’t said a thing about himself.

“This is difficult,” Steven told him, “because I have strict instructions from your doctor about what I can and can’t say to you. I know what you told me - you were born in Indiana and raised in Brooklyn, you were a sniper in the war, you were a POW, and then…”

“Nothing,” James said, sounding just as accusatory as he felt. “And then nothing.”

“Right,” Steven said softly. “But the problem is the same as Howard had - if I start on about my stories, even the ones I’m allowed to tell you, I might give you something that wasn’t real, that didn’t happen.”

“And what if I’m in here somewhere,” James said, “trying to stretch up for it, huh? What if the me I used to be’s drowning and nobody’s throwing me a goddamn life preserver?!”

He didn’t mean to end up shouting, but end up shouting he did, and Steven looked…

Old. To James’ surprise, he looked _old_ , tired like the men James had seen who still wore their uniforms, tired like the soldiers who still had their memories. 

“I don’t think your doctors are right,” he answered. “I think you oughta be told, but it ain’t _up to me._ Half what there is I can’t tell you, and the other half your doctors don’t want you to know and any other time, James,” he said, seeing that James meant to interrupt - for he did, he had a great deal to say, “any other time I’d be right there with you but this ain’t me and it ain’t some five star bruiser I don’t give a fig about, it’s _you._ A’right?”

James shook his head.

“I’ve got no right not to remember,” he said. “You understand? I’ve got no right - all those fellas came back screamin’ in the night and here’s me, happy as Larry save for this.” And here he shrugged the shoulder of his missing arm. 

“I do understand-” Steven said, but seemed to cut himself off before he’d finished speaking. “In a way, I understand. Really, I do. Not your situation, but that feeling - I told you before, about a figurehead?” 

“Yeah,” James said.

“Well…” and Steven’s gaze slid to one side.

James turned instinctively to glance behind him and, finding nobody, turned back. Steven’s gaze came back to him and James realized he must be checking for other people before he continued.

“A’right,” Steven said. “A’right but you gotta listen to me, there’s stuff I _can’t_ tell you. And I ain’t puttin’ you at risk when your doctors say you were so bad before,” and James hates that it’s true. Hates that he remembers the splitting headaches and the mixed-up nightmares from the last time people tried to talk him through who he was. 

“Right?” James said. 

And Steven checked again, looked back over his own shoulder out onto the terrace, and chewed his lip a moment when he brought his bulk around to face James again.

“I was the figurehead,” he said, his voice so low James was surprised he could hear. “They had a man at the front in red, white and blue, and that was me.”

James blinked at him. That was his secret? One he’d already admitted to? He shut his eyes - there was an ache behind his left eye but it wasn’t the stabbing pain that had left him writhing in his hospital bed when he’d first been found. He’d twisted the yellow-colored coverlet up in his hands and had nightmares for weeks but that was all he knew about it. 

“That’s it?” James said. “You were a figurehead?”

“They called me Captain America-”

And _that_ -

“Shit,” James muttered, trying to clap his hands over his face and surprised when he only felt one.

“James!” he heard Steven say, but for a moment, there was nothing but a lancing, white hot ache in his temples, a singing in his ears. “James, James, sweetheart…Oh- _God.”_

James shook his head and held out his hand - it wasn’t as bad as it could have been, there was no need to panic, no need to fetch help. 

It took a few moments to retreat but it _did_ , the pain _faded._ Steven was holding him, his big hands on James’ shoulders, his head ducked down close. James took a moment or two to be sure it was mostly gone, and he lifted his head again, trying to blink the pain out of them. But he remembered Captain America - red, white and blue and a target on his back, peeling posters on bar walls and billboards. 

“I remember you,” he said. 

Steven’s eyes went big as saucers.

“You do?” he said, and James nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “You were a USO girl first, right? And then active combat later?”

Something flickered in Steven’s expression, and he turned his head away for a moment. A lot of guys who’d seen combat tended to, James had noticed.

“Yeah,” he said, voice rough.

James couldn’t tell much in the flash of pain and color that had thrown itself up behind his eyeballs, but he remembered a not-quite smile and freezing air and the cold calm of knowing-

“I,” he said, and then there it was, the man he was in cared so much for, only younger, far away, dressed in the exact opposite of camo. 

One movement, one strange-looking Nazi, and one salute, all through the same crosshairs. 

Just another moment passed for Captain America.

“You know,” James said, “I-I think I saved your life once.”

“Mmm,” Steven told him softly, without even questioning it. “I’m very grateful that you did.”

~

They stayed in the Library for a few more minutes, Steven with James’ hand in both his own. 

It would be wonderful, if Steven could give him little things. If Steven could mention a place now and again or ask him about a name, a date. But they couldn’t, not really. For James, Captain America had been a glance at a poster, a passing mention in a camp. If Steven accidentally stumbled on something big, there was no telling whether it would do James more harm than good.

“I hate that my doctors are right,” James whispered, and Steven let go of his hand.

For a moment, James thought he might be moving away in frustration, but he didn’t leave. Instead, he gathered James close, his arm about James’ shoulders, and brought his cheek to the top of James’ head. 

“Me too,” Steven answered. 

“Thought you didn’t care who I was,” James said wryly, and Steven gave a soft chuff of a laugh that moved his body against James’.

“Many times as you need to hear it, I’ll say the same thing to you,” he answered, voice rumbling through his chest and through James’ too. “If you miss who you used to be, I’ll be sad you can’t reach him yet. If you want to be someone else, I’ll help you find the way. But who you were and who you are and who you will be aren’t for me to decide, and the only thing I can hope for is that the man you are now can care for me the way I care for him.”

James closed his eyes.

“Do we have to go to the morning room?” he said softly, and Steven laughed again, that small, soft sound, and pressed a kiss to James’ hair.

“No,” he said. 

James sighed. 

“But we should,” he said.

“Yeah,” Steven answered. 

“Why didn’t you tell me you were from Brooklyn?” James said softly, and Steven shook his head against James’ skull.

“I was afraid,” he answered. “I thought that if I did you’d ask me about it. And I knew I mustn’t tell you anything.”

James scraped his teeth over his lower lip.

“Then, aside from what the Doctors have told you not to tell me,” he said, “and aside from what I’m not allowed to hear about unless I was there…Is there anything else you haven’t told me?”

And Steven squeezed him tightly for a moment, his breath hitching.

“Aside from that,” Steven answered, “not a thing, I swear it.”

James nodded slowly. That would have to do for now, he decided. 

~

Nobody looked at him oddly when he and Steven walked into the morning room. Miss Martinelli and Miss Carter were sitting together, with Monty and Gabe in chairs fairly close. Dum Dum and Jacques were on the couch by the fireside and Jim had moved the chair from the writing desk.

That they could be so comfortable eased James’ anxiety more every time he saw it - it wasn’t a show. They weren’t pretending to be comfortable as a means of pretense. Nobody who was pretending to be comfortable would sit sideways in a fancy chair when the master of the house walked in. 

What was more, there was a spare seat and an ottoman still unoccupied. 

“I call the pork pie,” Steven said and…it was true, the thing was a little pie-shaped. 

James didn’t object - if Steven wanted kinks in his back, he could have them.

“I was just sayin’ how nice it is to meet you,” Miss Martinelli said as James took the chair, and James did his best to smile.

“Thank you,” he said. “I’m afraid I haven’t been here long, I don’t…really know that much about you.”

“Oh, well,” Miss Martinelli answered. “First thing’s first, Peg and I are in the life so you don’t gotta worry about nothin’.”

 _In the life?_ he thought to himself, and then just about swallowed his tongue.

“You and Pe- You mean Miss Carter and you-” he said, and then his mind raced for a moment and came up with something that felt right. “You ladies are _lavender?”_

Miss Martinelli beamed.

“Sure are!” she said.

“That’s,” James said, and it was so strange - it felt that the world had tilted around him.

Lost, he looked at Steven, who was watching him with a very warm, very kind, very patient expression. 

“They’re queer too?” he asked, and Dum Dum snorted. 

“Stealth,” he said. “That’s the key-”

“Oh, do shut up, Dugan,” Monty answered, putting his paper aside, and Jacques said something that translated to about the same. 

“How you feeling?” Gabe asked, and James looked at him, flabbergasted. 

“You really meant it,” he answered, and then looked at Steven because it was Steven he was addressing. “That’s what you meant?” 

“That’s what I meant,” Steven nodded, and he reached up and took James’ fingers in his own, squeezing them for a moment. Then he looked back at the room at large. “Who’s got the cards?” 

“There’s a set in the cupboard in the kitchen,” Jim answered, and Miss Carter waved a hand. 

“And trust that you haven’t rigged the deck?” she answered. “Not a bit of it. Darling?” 

“I got ‘em,” Miss Martinelli answered, opening her purse with a flourish, and Steven leaned against James’ leg for a moment, smiling again when James looked at him.

~

They played for used matchsticks, which Monty retrieved from a little porcelain container on the mantel. The matches had all had their burned heads cut off, and so this too must be part of a routine, he realized. Had Rebecca played cards with Miss Carter and Miss Martinelli? 

“Alright, ladies,” Miss Carter said as she dealt. “Aces high?”

“Let’s see if I remember how to play,” Steven answered softly, but when James looked at him he was smiling.

“Don’t listen to ‘im,” Dum Dum muttered, turning so nobody’d see what he held.

Steven lost the first hand, James noted. He also noted over the course of the next two hands that Steven chewed his lip sometimes. The toe of his right shoe would flex, too, and James had _just_ figured it for a tell when Steven blew them all out of the water.

“Royal flush, boys, read ‘em et cetera.”

“What?” James murmured, bewildered, as Steven pulled the little pile of matchsticks towards himself. “How did you do that? I thought for sure you had a duff hand!”

“Oh, this?” he said, flexing the toe of his shoe - his first tell. “Or did you mean this?” and he chewed his lip - the second tell - with such exaggeratedly wide-eyes that James laughed.

He’d been _faking!_

“Told you,” Dum Dum said, and James shook his head.

“Man, forget about _Steven,_ ” he said, “I don’t think _I_ remember how to play!”

“Aw don’t worry, sweetheart,” Steven answered. “Come on, you can be on my team.”

“You’re _joking!”_ Miss Carter replied, but Gabe stood up.

“Hey, if we’re picking teams, I’m with Jacques.”

 _“Quelle surprise,”_ Jim said in an accent that wasn’t even _attempting_ to sound French.

The afternoon devolved into raucous card-playing and merciless fun-poking after that.

“How?” James said, watching Steven win another hand - they might have been on the same team but it was clear who was running the game. 

“He counts the bloody cards,” Monty answered, and Steven just shrugged.

“Prove it, why don’t you?” he said, grinning.

James found himself grinning, too.

~

James didn’t know much about being a good husband but he could see that Carter and Martinelli made good wives. They sat close to each other, made jokes with each other, and they played cards well enough that they gave Steven a run for his money. Perhaps three quarters of the way through their playing, Steven bowed out, sharing all his accumulated matchsticks out amongst everyone else, and Martinelli went to fetch a glass of sherry for those who wanted.

Bucky declined, as did Steven, but Monty and Jacques partook alongside Martinelli an Carter.

“Got any beer?” Dum Dum intoned, and Jim snorted while Gabe rolled his eyes. 

“You and your beer,” Gabe told him.

“Better be some at this party ‘a yours,” Dum Dum said, and Monty put his head in his hands. 

“Wouldn’t even bloody be one if you idiots weren’t here,” he answered, his voice muffled.

“Hey, fourth of July in England!” Gabe answered. “Anythin’ more ironic than that?” 

“You mean more ironic than celebrating your independence by relying on our hospitality,” Miss Carter asked, and then pointed at Dum Dum, “or leading a horse to one of England’s most beautiful stately homes just so he can ask for that water?”

“You callin’ our beer water, Ma’am?” Jim asked, and she turned her head to look at him, raising an eyebrow.

“I’m calling your beer dishwater specifically,” she answered.

There was a resounding chorus of warning noises, but then everyone devolved into laughter a moment later, and James tried not to startle out of his skin when Steven’s arm wrapped around his calf and his head settled against James’ hip. James looked down at him instinctively, but Steven was just watching the people around him, smiling affectionately, the same way he smiled at James over meals. 

“What party?” James asked, and Steven hummed softly, James could feel the vibration of it. 

“Fourth of July’s gonne be here this year,” Steven answered. “Fancy dress, if Dum Dum gets his way.

“Oh like it was my idea!” he answered, pointing at Monty. “Mister Mansion over here started on about it-”

“Tradition!” Monty answered.

When Martinelli came back with the sherry, she handed them out and then took a seat _on Carter’s lap_ , and James had a automatic, heartstopping moment of terror - she and Carter were surrounded by seven men, two of whom were Dum Dum Dugan and Steven de Winter, and if anyone did that kind of thing they sure as hell didn’t do it in _company_ —

“Oh blazes, don’t the two of you already have a room?” Monty said and Dum Dum, who’d been fiddling with his button, double-took at them and wrinkled his nose. 

“How’m I s’posed to find a nice gal if nice gals keep findin’ each other?” he said, all his vowels Boston broad, and Martinelli shrugged a shoulder.

“Get to ‘em ‘fore they find out gals’re better?” Martinelli answered, and the others - Steven included - hollered at him about it.

James’ heart was still beating madly in his chest about it even as it startled a laugh out of him. Steven’s head moved and James looked down at him again - this time to find Steven looking back at him, smile fading into consternation.

“Say Carter,” he said a moment later.

“Yes, Captain?” she answered, positively saturated with sarcasm, and James looked at her then.

“If you ladies wouldn’t mind makin’ a point for me?”

“Ah!” Martinelli answered, and lay one on Carter fast as you like. 

James couldn’t help the stare - still, some part of him wanted to wrestle the two of them out of the room and ask whether they’d lost their _minds_ , but the men just set to hollering again, and that was that. Carter ran a thumb over Martinelli’s lips when they parted, though it was pretense - her lipstick was still just as perfect. But then they looked at _James_ , and James ducked his head instantly, shoulders hunching.

Steven’s arm curled a little tighter around his calf, and Steven wasn’t smiling when James’ gaze found his but he didn’t seem too concerned.

“It’s alright,” he said softly, and the others were mercifully still teasing each other, paying little attention to the two of them. “I know. But it’ll pass. You don’t gotta worry for nothin’ while you’re here.”

James nodded, but didn’t lift his head for a while. He still had the sense that someone might come running in with a bunch of cops and raid the place, or that they’d have to make a run for it any second. 

At least Carter sent a smile his way once or twice, so maybe she was warming up to him after all. If he’d had a hand there, he might’ve put it in Steven’s hair. As it stood, he just leaned a little more against him, and tried to calm his breathing and the racing of his heart.

***

After cards came lunch or, at least, came an assortment of people eating in each others’ company. The aforementioned hash was doled out, and it sat heavy and comforting in James’ stomach - strange that food could make him safer, could lift his mood so much. Not that it was down to begin with, but Carter and Martinelli had left him more shaken than he would have liked.

Martinelli left after dessert, and Jim and Monty cleared away the crockery and cutlery.

“Anything I can be doing?” Steven asked as they did - unusual for the head of the household, but not unusual for Steven.

He’d been just like it in the cafés in Europe, always collecting the crockery to take it back to the counter, forever settling plates in columns when they ate. In the time that James had known him, he’d found Steven couldn’t sit still most of the time, not when there was something to be done.

“No, Sir, unless you want to tend some of the dianthus out on the terrace?” Monty said.

“Sure,” Steven answered, and Monty laughed.

“I’m pulling your leg, old bean, though you could always get a few roses tomorrow morning if you want them for the library.”

“Sure?” Steven said again. “Anything to remember ‘bout cuttin’ ‘em?”

“Well you’ll have to ask Gabe about that,” Monty answered, and left with an armful of dessert bowls.

“Well!” Martinelli said, taking to her feet. “This has been a swell party and all but a gal’s gotta get a wiggle on if she wants to catch the the five-forty.”

“I could drive you?” Carter said. “Or you could leave in the morning?” 

James did his level best not to blush and must have failed spectacularly if the look on Steven’s face was anything to go by. 

“Come on,” he said softly. “We’ll go for a walk if you fancy?”

James nodded. That might be nice, he thought.

“Through the roses again?” he asked, and Steven shrugged a shoulder. 

“If you like,” he said. “Have you seen the woods yet?”

James bit back his answer - he hadn’t seen anything yet, not really. He’d been shown a room or two by the staff but Steven hadn’t been here for his first morning. 

“I haven’t,” he said. “Which would you prefer?”

And James chewed his lip a moment. 

“I’d rather the roses,” he said, and Steven nodded.

“Alright,” he said. “Then the roses it is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot for the life of me find a reliable source for this, but I know that I read while writing this that women in the 40s might give each other lavender as a sign of their lesbianism that wouldn't be perceived by outsiders. Urban dictionary can apparently back me up. I know it's also been used as slang for homosexual, and that it was part of an emerging queer feminist lexicon in the 70s. I'm not saying "trust me on this one," I'm just saying that's the meaning I was going for xD


	6. The Cliff

In the evening of that day, pleasant though the day had been, Monty came into the Library looking ill. 

James was concerned for moment until he saw that, cradled delicately in Monty’s palms, were the two halves of the paperweight from the desk in the morning room. 

“What’s wrong?” Steven asked, on his feet in a moment, but then he saw. “Oh,” he said, dejected. 

“I don’t know what happened to it,” Monty told him. “I was emptying the waste paper in the morning room and I thought it felt a bit heavy and…I found it like this, Sir.”

Steven put out both hands, his brow creasing, and Monty handed the pieces over as though they were an injured bird. 

“I’m terribly sorry, Cap.”

“Oh,” Steven said again. “Do you…Have any idea who it was?”

“I’m sure I can find out,” he said. “Of course, once I know, I-”

“Me!” James said suddenly, his face aflame. “I’m-” He stood, disrupting the cat who gave him a disdainful look. “It was m-me, Steven, I-I’m so sorry. I meant to tell you - I knocked it off the desk and it broke in two and-”

“Why on earth didn’t you say something?” Monty asked, more surprised than angry, but James could barely stand to look at Steven, at the dejection he had worn so openly. 

“I was…” he said. “I was going to say something to you in private, Steven, but I…I panicked when it broke and then I, with everything this afternoon, I-I forgot about it-”

 _“You_ broke it?” Steven said, looking up at him now, the two pieces still in his hands. 

James took a deep breath.

“I broke it,” he answered. 

Steven’s eyebrows rose, and he lifted his head once more. 

“Well,” he said. “I suppose that’s that, isn’t it?”

And then he handed the pieces back to Monty. 

“They can go out, I guess,” he said over a sigh, and brushed his palms over his pant legs.

He gave James a small smile. 

“It’s,” he said. “Don’t worry about it.”

James shook his head.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I really am.”

Steven waved a hand.

“It’s alright, it doesn't matter,” he said, and Monty paused as he left, but continued on his way nonetheless.

James worried that Steven was pretending for his benefit, but Steven did not bring the point up again.

***

It was after a week, of wandering aimless during the day on walks, or spending the time in silence in the library, that James woke in the middle of the night from a dream he couldn’t understand. He had been, as he often found in dreams, in several different places. Hiding in a trench in an open field, to run from a tank that was breaking through a wall, running through forest only to run out of pier and almost fall into the water below. He tripped, hung for as long as he could, and the pier grew until he was miles from the water’s surface, until his fingers were slipping, and then he fell, fell, fell and landed on a sea of yellow coverlet-

He woke _exhausted_ , his heart pounding, and pushed himself upright to sit in his bed. When he ran his hand through his hair, it was wet with sweat, and the covers were rumpled around him. He didn’t feel agitated. He didn’t know the places he’d dreamed about. He only knew that he’d been frightened in the dream, and that now the dream was over. 

Sleep didn’t come back to him easily, not that he tried for long. He was uncomfortable in the bed and so he got out of it instead, pushing back the gauzy curtain of the canopy to get to his feet. The hardwood was cold in the late spring night, and he wondered for a moment about where to go. He needn’t worry about the people in the house, nor did he need to concern himself with being anywhere on time, if nobody was awake to see him, or demand his presence, or question why he was in the wrong room at the wrong time. 

He crossed first to the window. It was bright in the moonlight, for the moon was waxing gibbous, and the whole mass of the garden seemed tangled in a way it did not during daylight. The place was still and quiet - no passing cars could disturb it, no late-night walkers. This was Midwood’s ground, private and secluded. 

Everything seemed silvery and translucent, as though it had been painted into the night, under the woodland, just to lighten the grounds. There was only a light breeze and, for a moment, he didn’t recognize it, mistaking it for movement amongst the roses. The shift of foliage made his face warm with adrenaline and his heart leap in his chest for a moment, his brain concocting a shape in the darkness that soon revealed itself to be a rosebush wavering on the edges of his vision.

It was enough to unnerve him, and he retreated from the window a moment later with the absurd thought that something outside might see him. Shaking his head a little, he went to the lamp at the bedside to turn it one, and cast a little light into the room. It was a room, dark in its corners, and he had no further desire to leave and explore the house.

He wondered if Steven’s bedroom door was open, if he could turn the handle and walk in and wake Steven and perhaps talk to him, or play cards with him. It was ridiculous, of course - James could no more go in and wake Steven than he could run through the house screaming blue murder at this hour. It wasn’t done, no matter his relationship with the man. And really, there wasn’t much of one to speak of at the moment. Howard had said things like ‘wake me if you need me’ but it wasn’t meant like that. It meant ‘tell me about it in the morning’ instead of ‘disturb me at your leisure,’ and the platitude would be repeated then. ‘You should have woken me.’ No, no, I couldn’t possibly. And then things would continue as they always had. 

If James shared the room with Steven, perhaps then he might be able to wake him in the middle of the night with such folly - darling, I’ve just seen something in the rose garden. And Steven would turn in half-sleep and mumble, ‘moonlight plays tricks, doesn’t it, sweetheart?’ and then they’d go back to sleep in each others’ embrace. 

But James had been a sniper during the war, so Howard said, and those sensibilities were troubling him now. Where his mind knew he was safe, his instincts told him otherwise. His blood was up and his tensions were high - all for the sake of a shadow in the light of the moon - and he could no more tamp them down than he could go back to sleep. He went back to the bed and sat down on its end, after finding for a moment that he couldn’t decide upon which edge to sit. Should he sit with his back to the window that he might keep an eye on the door, or with his back to the door in order to watch the window? Being seated at the end soothed both fears.

He shook his head at his own childishness and fleetingly wondered whether Rebecca might have worried similarly. But he was almost sure she would not. Without the constant agitation James endured, she would never have been so childish as to mistake a rosebush for a figure in the night. She wouldn’t even have reached the window at all, likely as not - she might have woken Steven and they might have talked into the small hours, or perhaps gone down to the kitchen together and…

And made hot chocolate.

That was a memory, he was certain. It brought with it a familiar dull ache in his temple, so it must have been, but all he had was the knowledge of blowing clouds of breath over mugs of steaming hot chocolate held in hands so cold they trembled. 

At any rate, it wasn’t something he could do with Steven, not now. Not when his presence was still so new in the house, not when he and Steven were still barely anything more than friends. The memory had, at least, served to calm his nerves a little, though he still thought wandering the halls wouldn’t be much of an idea. He wasn’t afraid, not really - he dreamed of needles and trenches and blue fire and bodies, there wasn’t much about a stately home that could frighten him. But he was uneasy, definitely unnerved. It served more as an irritation to him given that he’d seen so much on the battlefield only for _this_ to be what irked him, but there it was all the same. 

Steven seemed very much to enjoy Captain’s company but James didn’t know where the dog went at night - nor Alpine, come to think of it. Perhaps one of them could be persuaded to change their nightly routine and settle on James’ bed-covers with him. He couldn’t wake Steven, but the calming presence of a loyal animal might do wonders to soothe his nerves. 

He scrubbed his hand over his face and looked about the huge room. The moonlight caught his eye again, in the trees outside just as he turned his head from the window, and he clenched his jaw.

“Fuck this for a lark,” he muttered, and stood once more to draw the curtains before he returned to the bed.

It would keep the heat in anyway, and he wouldn’t have to worry about errant shadows making a mockery of his composure. And if he kept the bedside lamp lit, what did it matter? Nobody shared the room and, therefore, nobody could make a mockery of him.

He felt he was doing quite a reasonable job of that by himself.

***

At nine in the morning, James thought he’d been woken from his sleep by the sunlight slanting through the windows directly into his eyes, except that - after a few moments - a knocking came. It must have been that which had woken him because he heard Steven’s voice not long after.

“The- b- uh-” he said, voice muffled through the door. “Are, James, are you awake?” 

“Huh?” James said, more to himself than to Steven. “Yeah?”

“It’s nine,” Steven said. “You, uh. You didn’t come down for breakfast, are you-”

 _“Shit,”_ James said under his breath, pushing himself upright in bed. “Fuck, fuck- Sorry!”

“It’s alright,” Steven answered.

This wasn’t the way a husband ought to behave, was it? Late to breakfast? No, not even late. Late would have been bad enough - no, James was so bad at waking up for breakfast that it was already on the table.

“Can I come in?” Steven asked, and James considered it. 

“I-I’m not,” he said, trying to extricate himself from the bedclothes, “dressed, I’m not dressed.”

“It’s alright,” Steven said. “I won’t if you don’t want me to. I just that you didn’t come to breakfast, and I wondered...Are you sick?”

“I’m fine,” James said. “I’m fine, I’ll- I’ll be down in a minute.”

“Ah, uh. O-Okay, do you want…me to hang around to tie your tie for you or…?”

James looked around at the room. 

“I,” he said. 

To be quite honest, his mind hadn’t made it as far as considering what he was to wear for the day.

“Eh, y’know what, fuck it,” Steven said, his voice quiet but still audible through the door. “Hey, James? I’m not wearin’ a tie so bring yours down if you want me to tie it but don’t, y’know. Don’t feel like you have to. Okay?”

“Yeah,” James sighed, scrubbing his face with his hand to try and push away the last of the lingering fuzziness from his sudden waking. “Right. I’ll- I’ll be down in a minute, okay? Don’t wait, not.” He took a deep breath and sighed. “Please don’t wait for me.”

“Right,” Steven said softly. “Oh buddy,” And then he cleared his throat, speaking loudly enough that James knew Steven was addressing him. “Alright, James.”

And then he listened to Steven’s footsteps retreat and put his head in his hand.

He’d had a bad night, oversleeping was understandable, wasn’t it? God, what would the staff think? His second week at Midwood and he couldn’t even be at breakfast.

He wondered if Rebecca had ever been late to breakfast.

~

He did not take a tie downstairs, already mortified enough for his lateness that he didn’t want to trouble Steven for assistance. He stood outside the dining room for a long few seconds with his hand on the door handle, gathering the nerve to go in.

He was about to, too, when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Miss Carter was standing at the end of the corridor, in her black house-clothes once more, and stared at him. Her face was impassive but he was arrested by it all the same. The wry smile and open demeanor of the day before had vanished once more, and she watched him, waiting while he waited. He felt like a child before a teacher - small, stupid, naïve in the worst sense. She stood and watched, and watched and, in the end, he went in just to so he wouldn’t have to endure her staring any longer. 

When he finally did enter the room, Steven looked up at him immediately, knife and fork in hand. 

“Good morning,” James said, aiming to give him a smile at the very least, but Steven looked surprised to see him, or concerned perhaps. 

He didn’t speak for a moment, until he’d finished his mouthful, but responded in kind as James took his seat.

“Morning,” he said, and then pressed the knuckle of his index finger to his lips and continued to chew for a moment. He took a mouthful of coffee to wash it down, and then cleared his throat. “Sorry,” he said quietly. “G’morning. You sleep alright?”

James wrinkled his nose momentarily and then looked at him.

“Oh, I,” he said. “I was up in the night,” and then he took a breath to give Steven a proper apology.

“You should have woken me,” Steven answered as he did, and James nodded as he sighed his lungful out through his nose.

“Next time,” he said, and took another breath.

“No, I mean it,” Steven said before he could, and James set his hand on the table and cocked his head. “I mean it, that’s part of the reason I’m so close, that’s why I’m in the room next to yours. I don’t sleep much most of the time, and I sleep just fine with company. I don’t want you thinking I just say it because I think it’s expected - wake me. I’ll read to you, or we can play cards. Maybe take a walk if you think that would help. Alright?”

James didn’t say anything for a moment or two, regarding Steven and his earnest expression.

His first instinct was to brush Steven off, which he positively could not do. The second was to agree, despite knowing full well he wouldn’t follow through on the offer.

“I’ll take you up on it,” James warned him. “I’ll knock on your door at three in the morning.”

Steven laughed.

“I’ve got nowhere to be except breakfast, we can sleep late if we’re up late. Tell me you’ll at least think about it?” 

And James found himself nodding, found that he was smiling, too.

“Well alright, but that’s on you,” he said, and Steven crossed his heart.

“Hundred percent my fault,” and then he went back to his breakfast. “You feelin’ better this morning though?”

And James nodded as he reached for an egg.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m sorry about it, I just…I’m usually up earlier and I was barely awake for twenty minutes in the night but…”

“Nah, I get it,” Steven said softly. “How ‘bout if I have a bad night, can I come bustin’ into your room with a pack’a cards or somethin’?”

James laughed.

“Oh, sure,” he said. “Anything you like, bring a brass band.”

“Yeah? I figured you for more of a string quartet kinda guy.”

“Can’t dance to a string quartet,” James answered, but then he shook his head and looked up at Steven. “Listen, I really am sorry.”

Steven’s brow furrowed.

“What for?” he asked.

“Being late to breakfast,” James answered, and Steven’s frown deepened.

“Huh?” he said, inelegantly enough that James felt his eyebrows raise. “This ain’t a convent school, b- You don’t- There- Listen, breakfast…” and he sighed heavily, and then pointed at his plate with his cutlery. “Breakfast is when you’re eating it. And if I’m not here, you eat without me. You can run on your own routine, you don’t gotta stick to what I do.”

James nodded, though he certainly didn’t feel _that_ was possible in a place like Midwood. Steven didn’t seem overly concerned but James knew that this wasn’t fresh to Steven. Steven had lived here before, and Steven was used to living here now. James had only been here a day but everything seemed to have its place and its moment, and he felt like an intruder on every bit of it. This wasn’t a world he’d constructed. This was a world he’d been let in on. This was somebody else’s life, and he was just living in it. And he knew whose.

“I thought I might run the party by you,” Steven told him. “Given that we hafta have it;”

“Party?” he said. “For the fourth of July?”

And Steven lifted his head and looked at him for a long few moments. 

“Yeah,” he answered. “Some of ‘em are missin’ home, y’know?”

“And what about you?” James asked him. 

“Me?” Steven answered, and then shook his head. “Naw,” his said, his voice cold. “There’s nothin’ for me back in Brooklyn.”

James nodded a little, and went back to his food. 

The same, really, was true for both of them.

***

“Why don’t we go for a walk?” Steven asked.

It was another fine day, and James had yet to see most of the grounds. They’d taken a turn about the rose garden once or twice but, on the whole, life at Midwood seemed to reflect the attitudes of the rolling countryside itself - sedate, with infinite possibility, and nothing going on at all.

Surely his whole future couldn’t be walks and science fiction novels and turning up to meals on time? A traitorous part of his mind told him that Steven didn’t want him here as a friend, and that there might be plenty to occupy them inside in the coming months, if only James could get over his insecurities, but still. He couldn’t imagine his life being nothing but long walks and waiting for the next plate of food but, surely, that wasn’t what his whole life was to be?

“Sure,” he said, because it wouldn’t do to upset the man of the house. “You can tell me what there is to do around here.”

Steven laughed softly, awkwardly, and then heaved a sigh.

“Yeah, it’s…There’s more to do than walking. O-Or me painting, y’know. There’s. I mean if you’re really stuck for somethin’ to do, Monty’ll give you a duster’n you can go around the ornaments.” 

James blinked at him.

“That’s- I’m kidding,” Steven said, and James lifted his head in understanding.

“Oh,” he said, and tried to smile. “Right.”

Steven looked at him for a few moments, and then tilted his head a little.

“Come on,” he said, “let’s go out, we can take Captain out, we can talk a little. Okay? And I tell you what there is to do around here.”

James nodded.

“Right,” he said. “Okay, sounds good.”

And Steven laughed.

“Yeah, sure,” he answered, but he offered his elbow a moment later. “Come on, honey.”

And James took his arm because it was offered, because he was warm, and kind though he was sometimes hard to get a read on. When they left the dining room, they went past Dum Dum, who gave them both a very sloppy looking salute, (to which Steven muttered ‘atrocious’ and Dum Dum guffawed) and then, movement caught James’ eye. 

Miss Carter was, once again standing at the end of the corridor, staring at the two of them. 

“Captain!” Steven sing-songed next to him, paying her no mind, and James did his best not to stare at her.

She, in her black house clothes, with her hair pulled back, gave him no such courtesy in return, staring at him as though she might set him aflame if only she did so for long enough.

“Come on, boy, where are you?” Steven asked, loudly, but still tempering his volume enough that it wouldn’t upset James’ ears. 

They heard Captain’s claws on the wood a moment later, at a fair trot, and he appeared at the top of the stairs with his head on one side.

“Come on, boy!” Steven said. _“Komm her!”_

James felt himself smile - the German for ‘come here’ was so close to the English, it half sounded as though Steven were just asking in English with an accent. But James’ amusement was short-lived. Captain came all the way down the stairs and gave Miss Carter a look, too, ears pricked. James could see why they were picked as guard dogs - the size of him alone was intimidating but, with all that attention focused on one point? Nobody could mistake where the focus of his attention lay.

“Aw, come on, walkies. _Gassi gehen, ja?”_

Captain turned his head away, perking up a moment later and trotted towards Steven like he’d never paused at all, and he kept mostly to Steven’s side as they walked out into the sun. It wasn’t yet as warm as it could be - James was glad of his jacket and momentarily considered his refusal of a tie - and they crossed the gravel and were onto the lawn by the time Steven spoke again.

“Listen,” he said, “I know it looks like it’s all sitting around and doing nothing. But I don’t want you to be uncomfortable here. You know?” Captain turned around and looked at him, tongue lolling. “ _Ja, Hündchen, suche mir einen Stock,”_ Steven said, and off Captain went to find a stick. 

“So there’s hunting in summer?” James asked, and Steven laughed.

“Not quite what I mean,” he said. “Although I can ask around, I’m sure there’s a season for it.”

“You don’t hunt?” James asked.

“Pal, I barely cook,” he answered. “Why would I kill what I don’t know how to eat?” 

James frowned at the side of his head, but they kept walking, at Steven usual slow pace. The dew was gone from the grass by this hour and, soon enough, Captain came bounding back with a stick. Steven took it from him and threw it, and James watched it sail through the air towards the trees.

“You’ve got an arm,” he said, and Steven laughed.

“Yeah sure, _now_ ,” he answered, but then he looked down at James. “My God, you don’t know, do you?”

James frowned.

“Know what?” 

“I was weak before,” he answered. “Barely come up to your shoulder, I had everything wrong with me under the sun. And then they made me a figurehead.”

“What, they fed you up?” James grinned, but Steven was watching him.

“I was given something,” he said. “A drug. It made me…more. Stronger, faster, all’a that stuff. I can heal better. I can see more, remember more, too. And it would have been given to everyone but…” Here he shook his head. “The man behind it died.”

“Convenient,” James said, and Steven flinched.

“He was murdered by a Nazi spy,” he clarified, and James felt his mouth drop open.

“I-I didn’t realize,” he said, and Steven frowned, shook his head.

“It’s,” he said. “I shouldn’t have told you, actually but.” And he rolled one big shoulder in a shrug.

They walked a few more paces together, away from the direction of the rose garden, and James turned it over in his mind a few times. 

“They picked you first?” he asked eventually, because there couldn’t be many others - even when loose lips sank ships there were people who couldn’t keep their mouths shut, who wouldn’t put up their curtains and put out their lights, that he knew just from the emotion that welled up inside him when he thought of it. 

“Yes,” he answered. “I signed up for it, and I was first in line for the trial.”

James felt his stomach roil in response to the idea of it - that Steven would put himself forward for something like a drug trial, to be experimented on. At least, James supposed, he had done so voluntarily - Howard had told him some of the stories that had started to come out of Germany and James still dreamed of those things occasionally.

“Were there others?” 

Steven looked at him then, in that way he had of using his piercing gaze to pin people.

“Yes,” he said, without correction.

James couldn’t think of anything further to ask that wouldn’t cause the same level of upset - evidently the memory was painful.

They continued to walk until Captain came back to them, and then he took the stick and threw it again, a long, powerful throw that took Captain far out ahead of them and into the brush. 

“I’m shouldn’t have asked, I’m sorry,” James said softly, and Steven drew a huge lungful.

“No,” he said. “You gotta stop thinkin’ like that, you’re always sayin’ sorry. It ain’t you, none of it. I’m just….bad at talkin’.” He took another deep breath. “No, it’s…I had nothin’ to lose so I volunteered, and then I was first in line. When it worked, a Nazi spy killed our guy and took off with what was left. I found him.”

James didn’t ask what had happened once Steven had found him. He suspected he knew.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and Steven looked at him. “Not…Just…Because it’s. I’m sorry that you had to live through it.”

“Well,” Steven said softly. “I’m glad that both of us did.”

Their walk took them onward, down a path that narrowed with shrubbery on either side, though the fuchsia were beginning to bloom and the lilacs would be coming into their own soon. The path curved ahead of them and sank into the trees, and so they followed it together, with Captain coming back for his stick every once in a while.

“What would you _like_ to do here?” Steven said softly, the sounds of the world muted beneath the canopy above them. “If you want to hunt, we could look into it. The bay’s good to sail on, I know that much. I know I could spend months painting without a problem, I love to paint but…We can go anywhere together. We don’t have to stay here. If you wanted to visit places, I could take you. O-Or, you could. Go? I don’t have to come with you but…”

James laughed, leaned his head against Steven’s shoulder for a moment. 

“Is that all you do?” he said while they walked. “You sail or you paint, or you visit places?” 

Steven laughed gently. 

“What else did we do in Monte?” he said, and James nodded.

“I suppose,” he said. 

“What I’m trying to tell you is we can do anything. I have the money to do it and I know that the sailing is good, and the swimming, if you want. And you can read or you can listen to the wireless or…There’s…Anything you want to do.”

“Hmm, and what if the things I want to do are things with you?” James said. “What then?”

Steven tilted his head this way and that. 

“I have things I _have_ to do. I still do a little work for some people of import.”

“Once a soldier always a soldier?” James asked, and Steven smiled ruefully. 

“Something like that,” he said. “But I should be around for the most part. We can find things to do together.”

“You’ll do the crossword puzzle while I do the embroidery?” James answered. “Although I suspect you’d be better at the embroidery than I would.”

“Oh, James,” Steven scoffed, wincing. “Isn’t there anything you can think of?” 

James tried his best to picture the things he could remember doing for recreation, but mostly all he could think of was playing cards or waiting around. There were blurred images of memory - a draughty kitchen, his mother’s piano.

“I used to play piano, sometimes,” he said - not that he’d be doing that again. “And I…I think I wanted to write.”

“Well you’ll have to teach me some chords,” Steven answered. “Then we can play together.”

James laughed. 

“I think I used to like to dance,” he said. “I remember dance halls and colorful dresses.”

“Hmm,” Steven answered. “I never did learn how to dance. Perhaps you can teach me.”

James thought about it - it wouldn’t be too hard, certainly. Dancing was just moving your feet properly, and Steven could walk easily enough.

“What, put on the wireless and learn to Lindy?”

“To _Lindy_ , my God. Are you lookin’ to lose your legs as well?” 

And then they stopped because Steven stopped.

“Fuck, sorry,” he said, apparently forgetting all his etiquette. 

But James was already laughing. It was strange - away from the house, there was no routine to intrude on, no decor to be jealous of. Out here it was just the two of them and Captain, and no eyes to watch them, judgmental or otherwise. 

“Come on,” James told him, “Pry your foot outta your mouth and let’s go.”

Steven told him about some of the trees, and some of the plants along the way, but he declared it more Gabe’s thing than his. 

“Hell of a head for information, Gabe,” Steven said softly. “Glad to know him. Glad to know all of ‘em.”

The beach, Steven told him, was down the way some. They could go, he suggested, or follow the upcoming fork in the path that would take them to the cliff top. 

“I don’t think I can stand the beach today,” James told him honestly. 

They’d been able to hear the hiss and roar of the waves since they left the house, but James didn’t want the biting breeze or the slog of a walk over sand or shingle. 

“That’s fine,” Steven answered. “We’ll wait until the weather’s warmer.”

James only nodded, and tried not to think of the encroaching summer, of swimsuits and sunbathing. His shoulder was a mess of winding scars whose origin he couldn’t recall, and the last thing he wanted was for Steven to see him like that - for as long, at least, as James could avoid it.

They came out of the trees onto more rolling grassland, and James understood that the path would take them within thirty feet or so of the cliff’s edge. They walked along it, with Steven telling him little oddities about his men, or speaking about a mother he’d lost at a young age. He seemed to have an air of sadness about him that never truly left him even when he laughed, but James wasn’t so innocent as to think the underlying reason might be soothed with words. Perhaps it would be with time, but the wounds Steven bore, like all men who’d seen what he’d seen and done what he’d done, were neither visible nor healed. War was necessary - had been necessary, and the more the allies learned about what had truly happened, the clearer that became. But the men who’d fought it would be ever different.

At least, the sharp, angry part of his mind reiterated, he and Steven were alive to see it. 

They had been walking along the cliff path for perhaps five minutes, out of the house for a good fifteen, when Steven’s next throw took Captain off to one side. The wind had caught his stick and, confused by the trajectory, he veered off toward the house and missed it entirely.

“Aw come on,” Steven muttered, and let go of James’ arm for a moment to go and get it and, though the wind had brought it sideways, it was still a fair way off. 

James watched him go for a moment, and then stepped off the path to see the sea below. He kept his distance from the edge - a good fifteen feet or so - but he was just seeing the white-foam-tipped waves coming in when Steven’s voice, clear as day, rang out from behind him.

“NO!” he shouted. 

Startled not only by Steven’s voice but by the vehemence in it, James spun to face him instantly, to find Steven bearing down on him quickly, red in the face, his expression the epitome of intensity.

“Get away from there!” he said and, though he didn’t shout quite so loudly the second time, James still found himself sidestepping Steven as he reached out.

It put him one step closer to the cliff’s edge for just a moment, and then he went back to the path when Steven lunged for him again after that extra step.

“Who the hell are you yelling at?” he said turning around to look at him, and Steven, wild-eyed and tight-lipped, seemed incredulous.

“What are you, stupid? You know how fuckin’ far down that is?”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” James answered. “I could see over it, thanks. I might’a lost my arm but I ain’t lost my wits, or my eyesight, _or_ my hearin’. I was far enough away, and you could’a asked me ‘stead’a yellin’.”

“I was tryin’ to stop you gettin’ hurt - how do you know you was far enough?” Steven answered, all traces of his carefully measured voice gone now. “How do you know the ground was stable? How do you know the wind wouldn’t knock you off balance?”

James stared at him.

“You’re closer now than I was,” he answered, and Steven took several very purposeful steps towards him.

“No,” James said, holding up a hand to stop him in his tracks, and at least that worked on him. 

James looked out at the water, and then at Steven - Steven whose eyes still burned and whose fists were clenched. James shook his head. Whatever quiet rapport there’d been between them, whatever close-knit cocoon of intimacy they’d woven, it was gone now. 

“I’ll see you back at the house,” he said, knowing Steven could handle Captain by himself, and then he turned around and began the walk back.

“But-” Steven said, and _now_ he sounded apologetic, _now_ he sounded contrite. “James!”

James ducked his head and turned it just a little, to show that he’d heard but wouldn’t be listening, and then he put Steven out of his mind and did his best not to shiver as he left. The wind was just as biting here as it would have been on the beach, but at least there was a path here he could follow, at least he was less likely to fall.

~

James was halfway back to the house before he realized what he was facing, how this would look. They’d gone out together and he was coming back alone, without the dog. 

He kept his head down and his shoulders up - it had been windy on the cliff - and he tried not to let the harsh, angry timbre of Steven’s voice replay in his head. He hadn’t heard Steven talk like that before, hadn’t heard him shout and mean it. He’d laughed loudly in Venice and he’d called out to Captain, but he’d never treated James like a child before.

Still, all in all, James had barely known him more than a month or two, perhaps this was something of Steven’s he hadn’t known existed. 

The first person he saw as he went into the house was Miss Carter, who was standing just inside the door, presumably to go outside. He kept walking. He didn’t have to acknowledge her, did he? He didn’t have to give her the satisfaction? 

“Where is Mr de Winter?” she asked, in a voice that made his skin crawl.

He couldn’t determine what made it smug, or how he recognized her distaste, but it was there - a lack of a kindness, a knowing unpleasantness. 

“Out walking,” James said, and he felt his ire rise. 

She didn’t say anything else then, and he looked at her. She was staring at him with yet another indiscernible expression on her face. He didn’t like her - in truth, he was a little afraid of her. She was so clearly Of The House, a part of the routine and the life there in a way James was beginning to think he could never be. But she was staff, and he was not. Steven was Master and she was servant and, goddamn it, James didn’t have to put up with her unfriendliness.

He marched away from her without a second thought, his steps heavy on the hardwood and hammering in his ears, and went to the morning room because it would be warm from the day’s fire. 

It took him longer than he would have liked - he wasn’t as accustomed to walking as he felt like he must have been. He could tell that his body liked to move, that walking was a use of his time he must have enjoyed a long time ago, but it took it out of him for the time being. Howard kept him close and drove everywhere, and Steven had driven him most places, too. If he was going to live here, he’d have to start going for walks himself - it wouldn’t do to become fat and lazy with everyone else fetching and carrying for him.

Alpine was waiting in the morning room, in his usual spot by the window, and he turned his head to look at James, eyes swiveling, as James walked in.

He made a couple of kissing noises, and Alpine blinked slowly - at least Alpine wasn’t angry with him.

James settled on the couch by the fire and immediately wished he’d brought a book from the library on his way. At least here he could be undisturbed, surely? But it wasn’t to be. He hadn’t been in the morning room for more than a few minutes when he heard Steven’s jogging footsteps across the hardwood of the corridor and the accompanying jingle of metal that was Captain’s collar. 

_“Ja, ja,”_ Steven muttered, irritated, and then burst through the door in a way that was almost running straight into it.

Even knowing he was coming, it startled James, and he looked over his shoulder at the doorway in time to see Steven’s gaze sweep the room and land on him.

“Oh,” he said, apparently relieved, shrinking about an inch as he blew out a breath, and James felt himself frown. “I’m sorry.”

James said nothing, and Captain stuck his head in enough that Steven had to step aside for him. 

Once the dog was in the room, Steven followed, pushing the door to behind him once more to keep the heat in, and then he came right up to the couch on which James sat.

“Can I sit?” he said, and James frowned. 

He had half a mind to say that Steven could do what he wanted in his own house, but they’d already had one argument. 

“Yeah?” he said and Steven gave him a tight, awkward smile, and eased himself down next to James. 

“So,” he said quietly, and James wondered if anyone else ever saw him this way, if he ever faltered when he spoke to others, if he’d ever babbled when he spoke to Rebecca. 

Perhaps he had, perhaps he’d been struck by her the way he’d grown so nervous in Monte. 

“I wanted to apologize,” he said. “But I wanted to do it properly. I shouldn’t have gotten mad at all, let alone with you. I was letting it get to me and I took it out on you and you…You’ve been through enough.” He seemed almost small like this, hunched over. “I was awful to you and none of it was your fault, and you always…” He looked up then, sharply. “I always get mad even when I know better. Bu- Uh, but I-I’m gonna do better, I promise.”

James just looked at him.

“What?” he said. 

“I shouldn’t have…” he said. “I…” He sighed through his nose and shook his head, and then his expression seemed to clear. “Oh. Oh, I…you don’t know. Howard didn’t tell you?” And his eyes looked sad for a moment, almost imploring. 

James shook his head.

“Know what, tell me what?” he asked, and Steven shut his mouth and swallowed hard before he spoke again.

“It was a fall,” he said softly, his voice strained. “Last time. When…”

And suddenly James understood. 

She must have fallen from the cliffside, _that_ was how he’d lost her. Perhaps on a walk just like the one they’d taken together this afternoon - he’d gone with Captain and she’d taken a look at the waves below, or else she’d stepped too close searching for the stick - perhaps the path gave way beneath her, or she slipped on the dew, or the wind made her stumble.

“Steven,” he said softly, taking Steven’s hand in his own, but Steven’s eyes closed, his expression pinched. 

“Please,” he said. “Don’t forgive me because you pity me. It might be my reason but it doesn’t excuse me. I shouldn’t have acted the way that I did and I’m sorry. James, I’m sorry. I’ve always been like it, always angry first, and…And I mustn’t, it wasn’t fair to you. I promise I’ll do my best to do better by you, to be what you deserve.”

James shook his head.

“Steven, you were frightened for me.”

“And so I frightened you instead,” he answered, his eyes opening again, his fingers squeezing James’ own. “I can’t stand to lose you. I can’t, it doesn’t matter how. And if I frighten you so much that you leave then I’ve lost you anyway with only myself to blame. Sweetheart, can you forgive me?” 

James’ head was spinning. 

“What’s to forgive?” he said, and Steven shut his eyes again and, this time, his beautiful long lashes were damp. 

“More than you know,” he answered, and then he lifted James’ hand to his mouth and kissed James’ knuckles. “But it’s true, isn’t it? I could have told you, and instead I shouted. I acted like you were at fault and it’s me, _I_ was. I promise, I’ll be better to you.”

James took his fingers from Steven’s hand then and, feeling bold, he threaded them through the hair at Steven’s temple. Steven seemed to melt against the touch, to list to one side as though doing so would bring them closer. Perhaps there was an ache in Steven, too.

“I…” James said. “If you need me to forgive you then I do?”

Steven laughed then, a small, bitter thing, but nodded.

“Good,” he whispered, his brow creased but his shoulders dropping in relief. “Thank you. Thank you.”

James could only hope that was enough.

***

Steven followed him around for a day or two after that incident, as though he weren’t sure James would stay, or that James wanted him there.

It had occurred to James to ask what became of Rebecca - of course it had. But he’d also known it would be awful of him to ask, and that likely nobody would tell him if he did. It wasn’t his _fault_ that he hadn’t known, but he felt terrible about the way it had come out, all the same. Steven would hear none of it, accepting James’ sympathies only. Any time he attempted to explain he should have known, Steven denied it.

“I can’t imagine I’ve made myself very approachable about it,” he said. “But if there’s anything you need to ask, then ask me.”

And James had tried to think of something he could ask in such a situation. What were her favorite things to eat, how did she dress, did Steven want him to be like her. In the end, all he could think of to ask was, 

“What was she like?”

And Steven simply stared at him.

“She was the life of every party,” he answered, his face blank. “Always knew just what to say. Not me - I was awful at it, but… Everybody loved her. I wish…” But he shook his head. “Everybody loved her.”

 _I most of all,_ he did not say, but James was sure he meant it. 

“You must ask me,” Steven told him. “I’ll always tell you. Anything you want to know, you’ve only to ask.”

And James knew he wouldn’t, but answered that he would, all the same. 

Towards the end of that second week at Midwood, Steven surprised him one evening in the library with a case. Hard and square, with a handle and a lock, James could tell from the way Steven held himself that the case was heavy, and Steven told him to brace himself before he set it on James’ lap. Then he sat down beside him, and nodded.

“Open it,” he said. “It’s for you - I had it sent from London.”

James looked at him, searched his face, and Steven smiled.

“Go on,” he said, laughing. “It’s for you.”

And James looked at the heavy thing on his lap. Then he set about opening the lock and lifted the top half of the case away - it opened with most of the case on the upper half, the lower just a platform, and then-

“Oh,” James said. 

Sitting in his lap was a typewriter. 

“I wasn’t sure if you preferred longhand,” Steven told him, and one of his warm palms settled at the small of James’ back where he was perched on the edge of the couch. “But even if you do, I can always type it up on there if you need me to. The point is, I wanted it to be something your work was written on.”

It was sleek and navy blue, the keys round and black with big white letters, the ribbon smooth and unblemished. James wasn’t sure if he’d ever used one before - the smell of the case, of the metal, of the ink, none of it reminded him of anything. He knew women used them, because he’d seen secretaries and women at nurses stations use them. But then, doctors must use them too, mustn’t they? Not everyone could have a secretary. James had the uncharitable worry for just a moment that perhaps Steven wanted him to be little more than a kept woman - that he was seeking to replace his wife. But that couldn’t be, not when he seemed so nervous about James’ opinion. 

“Unless…” he said softly, looking at it too now, instead of at James.

“No, no,” James answered suddenly, spurred into a response by the wavering happiness in Steven’s voice, by the encroaching dejection in his features. “It’s wonderful, thank you.”

Steven sat very still for a moment, and James looked at him.

“I mean it,” he said, and Steven broke into a wide grin.

“You sure?” he said, and James just nodded at him.

“I’m sure,” he said. “How much did this cost you?”

“Ah, don’t worry about that,” Steven answered. “It’s a gift.”

James shook his head as he laughed.

“Why?”

And Steven shook his head, too, rolling his shoulder in a shrug. 

“You said you wanted to try writing,” he answered. 

James nodded - that was true - and they talked for a little while about it, but James couldn’t help but wonder at it. He’d mentioned writing only once, though he’d thought about it once or twice since then, but Steven had bought him a typewriter - a damn _good_ one at that - as easily as he might have bought James anything else that caught his fancy, as though he’d been talking non-stop about not having any way to write. James wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to this, nor was he sure he ought to. Imagine living in a place where someone could send for a typewriter and hand it over as though it were nothing more fanciful or uncommon than a particularly nice pastry from a bakery.

And so he put it in the morning room, atop the desk, on the blotter. He took a sheet of the expensive paper and picked out some things that he knew. He tried his name, first, his sister, his mother and father. He wrote out the Lord’s prayer and then all the places they had visited in Europe. He typed the colors of the flowers in the vases, of the room around him, and typed the alphabet out in upper and lower case, tried the numbers. 

He wrote Steven de Winter, and smiled at the letters on the page.

He didn’t know yet what tale he wanted to tell - perhaps he could record his life at Midwood, or his life until it, and amuse himself with the disparity between the man he’d been and the man he was, but he had something to do now. And even though he had only one hand with which to type, the clack of the keys was soothing in its own way. It meant that things he thought, things he knew, could be put down in black and white, it meant that his existence as a person could be verified. He was Steven de Winter’s companion, perhaps one day to live as Miss Carter and Miss Martinelli lived, and he was capable of creating something, however slowly, that was observable, and unique to himself. 

He hadn’t known that he wanted so much to write until he was doing it, and he couldn’t have had a typewriter before, for there wasn’t any memory of its smell, its feel. But the easing that came with the sound of the keys felt familiar - he must have loved to write, and not even realized it.

Even Alpine, whose ears twitched and swiveled for the first few minutes, grew used to the sound of it.

Lunch that day was sandwiches, made with good meat - the type they couldn’t have dreamed of during the war - and cheese and chutney, and greens and sweet, ripe tomatoes, and he returned to the morning room just as Miss Carter was leaving it. She did not look at him, though Monty, who was close behind her, smiled as he and Steven approached. 

“Hullo,” he said, and they both greeted him in return.

Steven, who had left a volume about Monet in the morning room, went back to it immediately, Captain before him at the fireplace. James, who returned to the writing desk ( _his_ writing desk, his mind supplied), found that, on his pristine white page of pristine black letters, was an enormous smudge.

He thought it accidental, until he realized that it was a word typed on top of another. Of the words he had written, only one had been overwritten. _‘Steven’_ it read, and then monstrous black, as though every single possible letter of the alphabet had been written over each letter of the surname.

“Steven,” he said, and Steven murmured from the couch.

“Huh?” he said. “Oh. Yeah?”

“You didn’t do this, did you?” 

And he looked up to find Steven watching him.

“Do what?” he asked, and James gestured to the page.

“Someone typed over what I’ve written,” he answered, and Stephen got to his feet immediately. “It wasn’t much, I was only testing out the keys but…”

Steven came to stand by him and leaned down, squinted at it. 

“No, I did not,” he answered sharply, and then he turned around and walked out of the room.

James frowned after him, uncertain, until he heard Steven shout.

“Monty!”

James felt cold at once.

“No!” he said, and went out into the corridor after Steven.

“Monty!” Steven shouted again, and James put out a hand to stop him, got in front of him as he turned.

They’d left the typewriter alone for the entirety of their very leisurely lunch in the dining room, and James was positive it wasn’t Monty anyway. 

“No,” he said “Steven, it doesn’t matter, it’s only-”

“Sir?” Monty’s voice floated down the corridor to him.

“Somebody’s typed over what James was writing, any idea who it might’ve been?”

“Don’t, Steven,” James told him. “Please, don’t make a big deal out’ve it, it was only scrap anyhow, just testing the keys.”

Really, it could have been anyone in the house, James knew that, as much as his instincts told him otherwise. It certainly couldn’t have been that Miss Carter would have done it in Monty’s presence, so Monty wouldn’t be any help, and James couldn’t exactly go accusing her without any proof.

“Not a jot,” Monty answered. “I can ask around?”

“Would you?” Steven answered, but James shook his head.

“No,” he said. “Leave it, Monty, it doesn’t matter. It’s just a bit of paper.”

Steven locked his jaw and took a deep breath, narrowing his eyes at James a little. Then he brought one hand up to James’ cheek, tucked his fingers under James’ chin for a moment. 

“I want to know,” he said, but James shook his head again.

“Don’t,” he said. “It’s not important. It’s just a bit of paper.”

And Steven looked pained for a moment.

“I’m asking you,” James told him. “Leave it be. Next time I won’t leave it out.”

Steven sighed heavily. 

“Alright,” he said. “But only because you’ve asked. And I’ll want an answer if it happens again.”

“Yeah, pal, me too,” James said, nodding. “But not now. Even if somebody did, they wouldn’t admit it, right? It’s just paper - probably somebody wanted to know what the keys felt like.”

And so they went back into the morning room, and Monty went about his business, and James put the marred piece of paper in the waste paper basket. It stung a little to do so - his first piece on his new typewriter - but he’d meant what he said. It was only scrap, it didn’t matter, not really. 

He tore it up into little scraps, and did his best to think no more about it, and Steven read to him about Monet instead, while James leaned against his side. He rubbed Captain’s ears between his fingers, and soon Alpine came to join them too.

Not long afterward, Steven raised his arm to put it around James’ shoulders, bringing him close, and his hand moved absently against James’ upper arm as he read. 

Like Captain, James thought. Here was James, with Captain by his knee and Alpine in his lap, stroking their fur absently as he alternated between them. And Steven was doing the same to him, James was like Captain, or Alpine to Steven. He tried not to wonder if he’d be as easily replaceable, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The moon really was waxing gibbous towards the end of may in 1948


	7. The West Wing

At the beginning of April, they had a burst of warm weather, and Steven was very much enamored by it.

“Geographically speaking,” he said, “we’re on a par here with New York - maybe even a little warmer,” and there was glee in his eyes when he spoke. 

There’d been no more shouting, no more unnatural vehemence. He’d been quiet and gentle as ever.

James had begun to try and lessen the distance between them somewhat, accompanying Steven to his bedroom some evening to play cards or to read, going with him on short errands. When he visited the post office, James went with him, and they bought fruits from the grocer. For the most part, however, the running of the house was left to Miss Carter and the staff, and James took to using his typewriter while Steven painted. Often, he would prefer the library to the morning room and, despite the distaste in Miss Carter’s eyes when Steven told Monty about it, soon their routine was changed so that Steven could paint in the library while James wrote, and the fire would be lit for them so that the room was warm. 

There was some talk for the party for July Fourth, but James wasn’t involved with it for the most part. Steven had asked, of course - did he want to be involved, did he have any preferences. He thought he might like fireworks, but could think of nothing else besides. 

“Do you want help with a costume?” Steven asked, and James thought about it.

“No,” he said eventually. “No, I think I want to surprise everyone.”

And he wasn’t sure where the boldness had come from, but it made more sense to him 

Steven didn’t seem too disappointed by it, and James thought again of how such a man had come to be at a place like Midwood. He didn’t seem the kind of man to be born into wealth - far from it. He was so aware of the work that went on around him, of the people who bustled to and fro though they rarely saw them, and he often asked the staff if he could assist. When they set the table or cleared it, if ever anyone were dusting, if Gabe went to fetch flowers from the garden, if Dum Dum were bringing in wood for the fire, Steven was always half out of his seat before they declined his offer to assist. 

“You’d do it all yourself if you could, wouldn’t you?” James asked him one evening, when they were sitting in Steven’s room, a book of Baudelaire unopened on the table between them.

It reminded him of the glimpses he still recalled from sometime during the war - he must have been on leave, he reasoned, because he could remember a beer he didn’t drink, and the air being thick with smoke. But sitting with Steven, like this, in low light at a small table, reminded him of that, though Steven didn’t smoke. 

James had never found himself with the urge, since his recovery. He’d never watched a lady with her cigarette holder or a man with his smoke in one hand and thought _‘I could go for one of those right now.’_ It was comforting, in a way - something he and Steven had in common. 

But, even as he thought it, Steven seemed unhappy. instead of laughing or making a joke of it, Steven’s brow furrowed, and he shook his head as he looked away.

“I don’t like sitting idle when people are working around me,” he said. “Never did. When there’s something to be done, there’s no reason I shouldn’t do it.”

And James found himself smiling at Steven.

“Clearing out the stables, huh, mowing the lawn for croquet?” 

“Oh, God,” Steven muttered, and then laughed. “Shining the silverware?” he said. “I guess, if they need an extra pair of hands. Monty does it, why shouldn’t I do it?”

“Hmm,” James nodded. 

He preferred their conversation to reading a good book, regardless of how good the book, and he was allowing himself to hope that perhaps Steven did too.

~

With the warmth of the beginning of April came Steven’s suggestion that they lunch at the chestnut out on the grounds, for it was tall and wide, and would be flowering within the next month or so. James couldn’t remember what a flowering horse chestnut looked like, if indeed he’d ever seen one, but thought he could imagine it from Steven’s description of the ‘candles’ that would bloom in the branches at the beginning of May. 

“Perhaps I’ll paint it,” Steven told him. “Show you what they look like.”

And then he leaned into James a little.

“Perhaps I’ll paint you and then show the tree.”

And James laughed - Steven had drawn a few different sketches of him, but was working in watercolor for the time being. He told James that his whims would change, that he’d go through periods of different media before moving on to something different. Steven liked, very much, to paint. 

“And what was it before watercolors?” James asked him.

“Aside from sketching?” he answered, because he always sketched, James knew that - anywhere he went, he had a notepad and a pencil in his pocket, and if ever he forgot the notepad, he’d find something else. James had seen him draw on a napkin when they were in Calais. “I tried charcoals again after a long time but they made just as much mess as I remember.”

And James could picture it - gray-black smudges on Sunday-best shirts and good tablecloths meant for company and occasions. He could imagine, too, smears of bright paint on pale skin, or patches of oil pastel on a work surface, and found that he couldn’t find it in himself to be irritated by the thought. If Steven ever left bright colors on his skin, or on work surfaces, it would surely just be a sign of how much Steven was absorbed in his work.

“Haven’t you painted Midwood yet?” James asked him, and Steven cocked his head. 

“I never felt the urge,” he said. “I like the littler things, the smaller places.”

And James understood what he meant. He wouldn’t paint the cathedral in Chartres if he could paint the roses in the garden when they’d visited instead. All of his renderings, his drawings, his paintings, appeared to be made specifically to remind James of each place they’d been without providing details that might allow anyone else to understand. It truly was remarkable.

And so, the first day they had of warm sunshine, Steven took him out to the garden for a turn about the lawn, and afterward they took tea and scones by the chestnut. Steven invited Dum Dum and Jim, who had happened to be in the vicinity, and the four other them sat around and told stories of their childhoods, lest some war-story upset James, with Dum Dum smoking a cigar now that they were out in the fresh air. James saw a hazy picture of a man in his mind’s eye as the low thurm of an ache settled in behind his left eye, and he knew it to be his father though the details became no sharper.

“I think my Da smoked a cigar sometimes,” he said, and Steven looked at him then smiling, but his smile faded.

“Did he,” he said, though it didn’t feel like a question, but his sadness was forgotten soon enough.

And James enjoyed the afternoon, of course, but it was difficult to be in their presence, knowing how close they were with each other, knowing how careful they had to be around him.

He didn’t know what they thought of him. They seemed polite and friendly - if they thought him cowardly, or useless, then they never showed a jot of it, but it still made him anxious to consider. He would have had very few stories of the war to tell anyhow, given how little he remembered, but sincerely hoped that they did not think less of him for it.

“I love the air here,” Steven said softly to him, while Jim and Dum Dum bickered about something of little consequence. “I miss the city sometimes, a’course, but…” and he waved a hand gently in the direction of the sea. “Doesn’t matter which city, and I like it better near water.”

James could hear the sea clearly from here, the thunder and shush of the waves as they crashed against the shore and drew back. He remembered the air from his home, remembered his back aching after a hard day of work by the docks, remembered the smell of the place in summer. He couldn’t remember the men with whom he’d worked, or the things he fetched and carried that made his back ache so, but those things were past, now. They were all gone. 

New York was, James realized, one hell of a long way away. The journey by plane was hugely expensive, and definitely not an everyday occurrence. The transatlantic cruise was also far from cheap, and _long_ , and he realized suddenly that it was extremely possible he’d never see Brooklyn again. He felt strange enough bout it that it must have shown on his face, for Steven looked at him with a question in his eyes a moment later. 

James shook his head and waved his hand - it didn’t matter to him as much as he might have thought it would, actually. He’d thought perhaps he’d feel something calling him back - friends he missed, given that his family had either died or moved - but he felt nothing. He looked out over the lawn at Midwood, from the shade under the chestnut tree, and listened to Steven and Jim and Dum Dum laughing together. If their days were spent like this, in company, enjoying the weather or their stories, or their proximity, James could easily grow used to it. If only he could be sure that Steven’s amicability was genuine, that his affections would stretch to the extent of James’ own.

He seemed a very good friend to James, and James could not help but wonder if he’d every be anything more. He looked at Steven, who was scraping his pencil over a page of his notebook in the shape of the way James’ hand curled around his cup of coffee. He had drawn, so James saw, the ladybug which had settled some time ago on the edge of James’ saucer for a moment, before it had lifted its scarlet elytra and wavered off into the afternoon - Steven must either have drawn it then or placed it there with artistic license in the spirit of the afternoon. And, in similar spirit, James saw too, on the rendering of his own fourth finger, that Steven had drawn the lightest, barest shadow of a plain metal band.

***

Steven spent a great deal of his time painting. He painted the view from James’ hotel room in Monte, and the view from the promenade. He painted the square and the ice-cream parlor, the beach, and places that they’d visited that only James would recognize.

The pigeon James had pointed out at the Piazza San Marco in Venice, the gondolier who’d waved at them as they crossed the Ponte de Fuseri, the view from the train that James had been so enamored with. All of them, he rendered so beautifully, so accurately, that James would never have believed them made from memory if head not known no photograph existed. 

“Something else it gave me,” Steven said, as James recognized the view of the Rhine he had been painting. “Useful in the war if I’d seen a map.”

James had nodded, but moved away, as the sunlight Steven had been painting in was too much for his eyes. 

“We can move rooms if it’s too bright for you?” Steven said softly, setting down his brush, but James shook his head.

“No,” he said. “I like this room. Out of all of them, I think this is my favorite.”

“Mm,” Steven nodded. “It’s smaller than the others.” Which was true, even though it was huge compared to every other half-formed memory of rooms floating around in James’ head. “Cozier.”

Its color scheme was warmer, too - there were dark greens and burgundies in here, golds, unlike the bright, airy pastel blues and brightly-polished ornaments in the morning room. The rugs and furnishings were less elegant and more stately, and the combined effect of all of this was that the whole room seemed closer, even at times like this, when the sun slanted inward and lit the whole room from within like a chest of buried treasure. James wasn’t sure he could ever come to be truly comfortable in the huge stately rooms of Midwood - the enormous dining room, the ridiculous width of the _ballroom_ for goodness’ sake - but the library…

He could spend the rest of his days in the library, with Alpine and Captain, while Steven painted quietly, perhaps with the wireless on in the corner, or a hot cup of coffee on the table by the couch. In fall they might toast bread at the fireside as he knew he had done once or twice in France during the war, and in winter they could curl up together and share the space in comfortable silence.

James looked forward to that - to the time when he could sit by Steven and not wonder at his thoughts or motives, when the two of them would work as a single person, the way his parents had once. Finishing each others’ sentences, and moving around each other in the kitchen, of course, but settling down by the fireside together, too, feeling that they both could go for a walk, or that they both might go somewhere for the day, both of them hungry, or both of them happy.

James hoped to feel that happiness with Steven some day.

One afternoon, not long after their first chestnut luncheon, Monty put his head into the library and told Steven there was a call for him, via London. 

“Ooh,” Steven said, bobbing his eyebrows at James. _“Via_ London!” 

He said it with exaggerated excitement, and in Monty’s accent - vy-ah, not vee-ah - and when James chuckled at him as he left, Steven’s mock excitement turned warmer. He had meant, so it would appear, to make James laugh.

“Don’t wait up!” he said, like a secret, and James snorted at him. 

But, after perhaps twenty minutes, James started to wonder at the length of his call. After half an hour, Alpine, whose warm pressure had been welcome since they’d come back inside, decided to stretch and wander off, and James placed his bookmark and stood to stretch, too. 

He left the library because Alpine left the library, and he went to the kitchen - where Monty and Gabe were having a spot of tea to themselves - and to the morning room. He knew where the dining room was, and the washroom, there was even a drawing room that he’d been in once or twice in the few weeks he’d been here, but those were empty too. He wondered if Steven might be in his own room, and walked all the way to it, but found it empty, finding his own room much the same.

He did not know the rest of the house, but that did not much matter to him - if he were to live here, better that he should learn the place, otherwise, there might come a time in the near future when he looked a fool in front of the rest of them for something as simple as not knowing where a room in his own house was. Still, he wanted to find Steven - for he would have come back to mention it if he were leaving the house entirely.

He went along a corridor, towards the center of the house, to start with. He knew of the downstairs and the East wing, and knew too that there must be other rooms whose purpose he either did not know or did not need to know. The lodge at the end of the drive housed one or two, and there must be servants quarters still in use for the staff. He found himself hoping that Steven had done away with such practice, and given them all a beautiful room like his own, instead. 

He wandered and wandered, but must have lost his bearings. He passed through a stone corridor that he was sure must be a servant’s passageway, and found himself in a long corridor that he did not recognize. Far from the open doors and daylight-brightness of the other rooms and corridors of the house. This was dark, closed off, and strangely ominous for it. He hesitated as he turned onto it, and stretched out a hand to the dark paneling there.

There was nobody here, that much was quite obvious. If anyone had been here earlier in the day to tend to the rooms, there was no-one now, and something low and repetitive sounded throughout the place and seemed to echo off the walls. This did not feel like a place that had been lived in, no longer a home. Instead, this silence was almost oppressive, encroaching on him as he moved so that he barely dared breathe in case his breaths came too loudly.

He walked as slowly and quietly as he could, but his feet still sounded on the floor, even though the carpet that ran the length of the corridor, and he pushed open a door at random to find a room in complete darkness. 

It smelled hot and dusty, airless as rooms that are never opened are airless, and all within the room was covered with sheeting. The heavy curtains, too, were drawn, and allowed no light in, and he knew the room must have lain quiet since at least before he’d met Steven in Monte. This was no week-old staleness, no single month’s worth of dry, dusty atmosphere. This was old stillness, perhaps a year or more. The room was large and, though the furniture and mirror and fireplace were all prepared for a long hibernation, James couldn’t help but wonder whose feet had trodden in here last, whose head had lain on the covered bed, who had sat in the covered chairs, who had looked in the covered mirror. 

He left, and closed the door softly, uncertain, and the wind whistled under the closed doors along the way, an eerie moan that spoke of the forgotten rooms. The breeze whistled from another place, further down, and the steady, low sound continued to come, over, and over. 

Further down the corridor, as his footsteps creaked and tapped, the sound was closer - a knocking. Perhaps a loose shutter then, or a window improperly closed. Perhaps even a wardrobe door, caught in a draught, or something similar. He felt, too, as though the rooms were waiting for him, or perhaps following after him. He knew the difference, having taken plenty of on watch, between anxious nothingness and the instinct that someone was truly there, but one was merging into the other in such a place as this, with so little practice to keep his instincts sharp. That was what you got, he supposed, for swapping trench and battlefield for house and lawn.

He remembered….somewhere, Italy perhaps, or France, during the war - on watch at night, one’s eyes would play tricks. Staring into the shadows between the trees would yield nothing but specters, and the more green of the men he’d worked with could whip themselves up into a frenzy all for nothing just by convincing themselves that the darkness moved.

James knew his sniper’s eyes were out of practice and, more importantly, they’d be nothing in the face of irrational unease - experience told him as much.

He opened the next door, for the sound seemed to come from within, and found instead another empty room, soundless and still. No air flowed through it to shift the motes of dust, for each chair and table was covered, the shelves empty. For a moment, he thought a breeze stirred the sheet over the standard lamp in the corner, but it was still when he looked at it, no breeze in the room at all, and he admonished himself silently for it.

He left this next room, too, following the knocking uneasily, until he reached the end of the corridor. Indeed it was a shutter - old and wooden and in the draught from a window in an alcove at the top of a flight of stairs. He knew now he must have come to the opposite side of the house, for this was the mirror image of the wing he now lived on with Steven. 

Miss Carter had been right - the sea was audible from here, as it must have been from the rooms James had visited. Too preoccupied to notice it then, he heard it now instead, and leaned closer to the window to see better. There was a film of condensation beginning in the corners of each pane of glass, for April’s warm sun was not yet far across enough in the sky to warm these rooms, or to bring light to this side of the hose. What was more, there were fingerprints in the dust on the sill, and on the glass in the frame - there must have been no-one here for months, just as he’d thought. 

He wondered if the mist would rise from the sea in autumn, and creep toward the house across the lawn. As he watched, a cloud passed in front of the sun, and the bright green of the lawn and the dancing waves turned suddenly to stone and moss, cold and unfeeling, with the white crests of the waves knife-sharp and unforgiving. He was glad that his rooms were in the East wing now, glad that he could look out on the forest and the rose garden, and not have to watch the creeping fog, or endure the endless ebb and flow of the tides. He stepped away and made to descend the stairs but, without knowing why, he paused, and turned behind him.

There, halfway down the corridor, stood Miss Carter in her house clothes, her hands clasped in front of her, her eyes unblinking. He thought for a moment that she was angry, or else disgusted, but her face became a mask as soon as he saw her, and he felt once more like an admonished child, or someone caught in a place they should not have been, walking through a house through which he should not have passed. 

“I’m looking for Steven,” he said. 

“You are in the West wing,” she answered, and he nodded. 

“I know,” he said. “I’m trying to find Steven.”

She did not move. 

“Did you go into any of the rooms?” she asked, and James nodded.

“Two,” he said. “I was trying to find where the knocking was coming from.”

“If you wish to have them open, I can have them opened for you. The sheets can be taken down and the rooms aired out for you.”

“No, thank you,” he answered. “Where’s Steven?”

“He is not here,” she said, from where she stood and had not moved. “If you would like me to show you the rooms, you have only to ask.”

James looked at her, doing his utmost not to frown visibly. Her tone was strange, as though she were trying to share with him a secret that he ought not to know, or as though to persuade him into mischief when it might he left to him to take the blame. He did not like it, and took a step away when she took one closer. 

“I can show you them as they were when they were in use-”

“No,” he answered. “Thank you. I am looking for Steven.”

And she stood there, still, with her hands clasped. 

“The master is in the drawing room,” she said, and James nodded.

“Thank you,” he said, though he felt far from courteous, and he left her standing there, though the hair rose at the nape of his neck as he turned his back to her.

She unnerved him, and he had no doubt that she knew it. Perhaps hers were the fingerprints on the sill and on the glass, left there when she wandered the house if no other task were assigned to her. The wind moaned again at him as he descended the stairs into the warmer air of the main part of the house, and he hurried his steps as gooseflesh broke out across his body.

Perhaps they were not Miss Carter’s at all. Perhaps _that_ was why Miss Carter had left them - for the same reason the rooms had been shut-up in the first place. They were Rebecca’s, and the household found it too painful to live in the rooms where she had been so very much alive. 

~

Steven was not in the drawing room. When James reached it, Monty was dealing with something on one of the tables.

“Sorry, Sir,” he answered. “You just missed him about ten minutes ago. Spilled a bit of ink, he said he was heading upstairs. I can’t imagine he’ll be too concerned if you go after him.”

“Thank you,” James said, for Monty always seemed so much more sincere in his efforts to help, so much more kind in his expression and his patience. 

And so James set about returning to the East wing, to find Steven. 

The house on this side was so much brighter, and though he couldn’t hear the sea from here, he heard the birds instead, the rustle of wind in the trees. He felt lighter with each step further from Miss Carter, and took the last of the stairs two at a time. If Steven was upstairs, it would mean that his telephone call had finished, and perhaps James could find out what his plan was for the remainder of the afternoon. 

He reached their corridor and went to Steven’s door to put his head and shoulders in through the doorway, knocking as he did.

“Steven, I-” he said, and then his mouth went dry.

James had heard from ladies he’d met how terrible it was when a man saw only the clothes she wore or the figure she cut, when suitors cared for nothing but the sight of a low-cut dress or the flash of a lipsticked smile. 

He was instantly mortified, therefore, at the sight that greeted him when he walked into Steven’s room, and arrested by it immediately.

Steven was not naked, because he wore a towel about his hips. And James could remember bathing alongside soldiers in fast-flowing rivers cold enough to bring on an onslaught of jokes, being unafraid and unashamed of wading into lakes or pools so long as it meant being a little cleaner, and caring not a jot as everyone air dried, or sat around in skivvies while one's clothes dripped from low-hanging branches. 

But _this_ -

James had seen statues in books, had seen statues in person! He’d seen figures hewn from marble and alabaster, molded into ridiculously opulent beach houses and hotel façades. He’d seen artists' renditions of mythical heroes and ostentatious representations of classical works for the sake of gaudiness, but this was something else entirely.

It was not difficult to tell that, beneath his summer suits, Steven was fit and cared for himself well. He never tired on walks, he always moved first to fetch and carry luggage, and he didn’t walk where he could jog - especially if a faster arrival was more conducive to politeness.

But he had never in all the life he could remember, seen a body like Steven’s. 

His skin was all smooth, all pale, the muscle thick and round in his upper arms, corded and tight in his back and his forearms. With his hands scrubbing a towel over his head, his arms were raised, and the pull of them stretched his pectorals, his abdominals, his stomach flat and his skin dusted with hair.

James found himself cataloguing detail - the small, dark dip of his navel as he turned, the high, sharp jut of his collarbones, the smooth darkness of shadow between them and the whole-body covering of freckles that began at his shoulders and seemed to stop around his ankles. His calves were strong and well defined, his feet long and planted firmly, and James felt all at once a sweeping desire to touch that skin that near enough swept him off his feet. 

The force of the surprise was enough to make his face heat and his temples throb, to stop him dead in his tracks so that he stared, mouth open. Steven seemed as unashamed as any soldier for a good few moments, turning from where he stood to face James without a care for his state of undress, until something seemed to come over him, and he took down the towel from his head to hold it in front of his chest instead. 

“Hi,” he said, using the corner to dab moisture from his face while he used it to hide a little more of his chest, and James saw that he must have shaved the shadow from his jaw - how strange for him to shave in the middle of an afternoon. “Sorry I didn’t come back, I got ink on me writing some details down and thought I could manage a quick wash up.”

There was indeed the shadow of ink over his left hand and forearm, where bathing hadn’t got it all. He must have spilled the bottle into his sleeve.

“Uh,” James answered, and Steven dropped his gaze.

“Oh. I’m…sorry,” he said. “I didn’t occur to me I might put you off.”

“No!” James answered, and then wished he could pull the word back from the air and stuff it back into is mouth. “Jesus H Crimeny,” he muttered.

Steven stifled a laugh, James could hear it, and then James put his hand over his burning face and had to stifle one of his own.

“Well at least I know I’m wanted,” Steven said softly, and James took his hand down to _stare_.

 _“Wanted?_ ” he asked. “I don’t think that’s the right word.”

But Steven was smiling. 

“You’re going to be my husband at some point, aren’t you?” he asked, eyes sparkling. “I’d be pretty concerned if you didn’t.”

“That’s,” James answered, and then shook his head a little. 

Steven lowered his hand slowly, so that he stood where he was in his towel, head up, shoulders back. So that James could look his fill. 

James did - he couldn’t help it. Steven’s whole body seemed to have been made to draw the eye from one place to the next. His throat tapered down to his collar bones and they led to the breadth of his shoulders. The muscles there seemed like a mantle across him that drew in at the center of his chest, and then his musculature tapered inward as James’ gaze traveled downward. His whole body seemed to glow at the edges in the light from the window that came directly from behind him.

“Tell me,” Steven said, “when you’ve had enough.”

Too many thoughts intruded at once for him - he was a grown man, for God’s sake, this was the man he’d come to live with. And he knew then that if he asked, Steven would let him cross the room to bring them closer. Steven would let him touch all that smooth, warm skin. Steven would shed his towel and let him-

He ducked his head, looked away again, face burning. 

“I’ll wait,” Steven said softly. “I know what you want, I want it too.” James bit his lip so hard he was surprised not to have tasted blood. “But I’ll wait.”

And James nodded, shut his eyes and nodded.

How could he say to Steven that he was sure he already knew? That he couldn’t look at such a body, couldn’t want such a man, without somehow longing and knowing all at once? He knew Steven’s skin would be warm, knew Steven’s breath would be hot, knew Steven’s hands would be strong and still gentle. It burned inside him, formed a dense, aching ball in his chest. He couldn’t remember kissing, couldn’t remember being held, couldn’t remember sharing space and skin and pleasure but he knew that he missed it all, that he longed for it all. And he knew, from the fire in Steven’s eyes, that Steven spoke the truth as well. 

“I’m not ready,” he said, because it was true.

If he tried now, if he closed the distance between them and kissed Steven, or perhaps just allowed Steven to kiss him, he’d falter. There would be no press of flesh, no sharing. Desire would be snuffed out like a flame under the douter of James’ apprehension - probably on both their parts. James knew without doubt what he wanted and still knew he’d be unsettled, jittery. He didn’t think that Steven would have much patience for a lover whose lovemaking was limited to shaking hands and turning his head away from every kiss. 

“I’ll wait,” he said again, his voice low and rough and kind. 

And James retreated with a nod, leaving Steven behind, his face burning as he walked down the corridor, his footsteps echoing around him.

***

When he dreamed that night, he dreamed that broad hands held his hips to steady him astride strong, pale thighs, and touched him with strength and surety he hadn’t known he’d missed, dreamed that that a deep, rich voice sighed, strained and gentle, in his ear, dreamed that his hands fit perfectly over muscle and skin that shuddered with every breath, and he woke with a gasp, and the mortification of the images he’d dreamed alongside the knowledge of what it really was, with sweat slicking his skin and his body betraying his arousal.

He was alone, the room was dark and empty, and it felt as though he’d taken advantage of Steven’s generosity by picturing him like that. Even though Steven’s interest in him was painfully obvious at times, he held himself back, and James was horrified that his mind couldn’t manage the same courtesy.

He tried to rid himself of the images by vacating the space, lurching from his bed in the hopes that a change of scenery might help him think more clearly, but he stumbled as he tried to push against the mattress, and crashed to his knees on the hard, wooden floor, before staring at the empty left sleeve of his pajama shirt, on which he’d tried to lean. In the dream, he’d had both hands, pressed both to Steven’s chest and felt warm skin under his fingers - he felt that he could still feel the ghost of it now. 

But even that didn’t help hinder his body’s response. 

No-one could hear him, of course, the whole house was asleep. And the bathroom was so unfairly far away, his body trembling with the things his mind had imagined, that he couldn’t get his feet beneath him. He shook his head, breathing hard as he shut his eyes to gather his strength, but that only let him hear that soft, strained sigh in his mind once more. 

And so he turned his burning face into the coverlet against the side of the bed, a crude and wretched thing hidden in the dark of his room and, muffling his own voice in the decadent fabric, almost managed to convince himself that the hand he had left was not his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A douter is a fancy word for a candle snuffer.


	8. The Visitor

James was not sleeping well. His dreams were mostly either flashes of a war he couldn’t remember or places in the house, figures without faces. He thought perhaps that some were memories, but he couldn’t be certain. He woke with headaches, and breakfast was eaten later, often, but, in the first week of May, a good thing came of it.

One night, he woke from a nightmare he couldn’t recall and, in the moment between sleep and waking, thought he saw through the curtain about the canopy in his bedroom someone walking, coming toward him along the very edge of the bed only to disappear as they passed behind the bedpost at his shoulder. 

It left him badly rattled, gasping in the silence of his room, and he wondered if he dared take Steven up on his offer of company. At most, he would be irritated, and turn James away. It was ridiculous, James knew, but now that he’d imagined a figure just beyond the curtain, he saw one everywhere. The trees outside made him startle when they shifted in the breeze, the shape of his jacket on the back of the chair by the desk in the corner startled him badly as he went to turn on the bedside lamp and, before he could even lean past the curtain to do that, he had to calm himself first and convince himself that there could be nothing there. Even if it hadn’t been a figment of his imagination in his frenzied state, nothing as large as a person could hide behind something to insubstantial as a bedpost. 

He found his slippers and put them on, and then went to his bedroom door. This, of course, would be the real test. He was not afraid of the dark ordinarily, but the shadow that had persisted from his dream had unsettled him, and he knew that beyond the door lay more shadows. He could, he thought, shut his eyes and feel along the wall until he encountered Steven’s door, but that would unnerve him at least as much. There was nothing, he told himself, out there. Nothing but the dark and empty hallway of a manor house, nothing but shadow in his home. He could do this. It was easy. He’d run face-first at the enemy and still come out on top, a darkened hallway? He could do this. 

He took a deep breath, and opened the bedroom door, and how he wished in that moment for a candle or a flashlight. The corridor was even darker than he’d anticipated, and the sensation that had followed him when he woke - that there was something just beyond his field of vision - was almost overwhelming. 

He could not allow this to rule his life, couldn’t let a slew of bad dreams dictate what he did with every waking moment. He’d been on guard duty in nazi occupied France, for God’s sake, he could walk ten feet to the next door down.

He stepped out into the corridor, and leveled his breathing, focused straight ahead and ignored his irrational fear telling him to look behind him, telling him to check down the corridor, telling him there was a shadow following in his doorway, or perhaps one standing at end of the hall. He knew he was alone, and he knew Steven’s door was close, and he knew this feeling. This was fear and adrenaline, nothing more complicated than that.

Steven’s door did not creak as it opened, and James stepped through it quickly, and closed it quietly behind him.

There. 

He felt an idiot. With the door closed between him and the darkness, he felt an absolute fool - some light came in through Steven’s window, and Steven himself lay in bed. But, even as James watched, he stirred. First he lay still, and then he pushed himself up onto his elbows? 

“Bugh?” he said, voice thick with sleep, his hair in disarray, and then reached out and pulled back the curtain. 

He had no such qualms about figures in his bedroom, clearly. 

“Mmh,” he said. “Hmm?” 

James had misread him, had misunderstood. Even knowing that ‘you should have woken me’ was a meaningless platitude, he’d done it anyway - crossed to Steven’s room and intruded while he slept.

“I-I’m sorry,” he said, and the tight, twisting feeling of mortification in his stomach made him reach back for the door handle. “I…”

I shouldn’t have come, I shouldn’t have woken you. Too late for both now.

“No,” Steven answered, but he sounded as though he were speaking through pillows, sitting up a little further as he scrubbed his hand across his eyes. “What? No, c’mere. C’mere, don’t worry, I told you to come get me, what happened?”

He felt like a child, coming crying to his mother in the middle of the night. Please mama, there’s a monster under my bed, what a _fool_ he was. 

“Bah- _ah,_ ” Steven said, and he sounded irritated.

“I’m sorry,” James said, again.

“Please,” Steven said, “please don’t go, please, I just…Honestly, I forgot where I was for a second. Okay? But I asked you wake me if you needed me, what’s the matter? What do you need?”

And James was helpless. What indeed? What could he say to this man that didn’t make him sound useless, cowardly?

“I saw a figure in the room,” he answered. 

Instantly, Steven sat up straighter, dropped his hands to look at James properly.

“Should I wake the others?” he said, and James shook his head before Steven could get the wrong idea.

“No,” he said. “No, it was…it was just a dream but…”

“Damn,” Steven muttered, sagging where he sat in the bed. “Would’a rattled me, you wanna stay in here tonight?”

James could have wept in gratitude. 

“I-I can stay on the couch,” he said. “If you-”

“Don’t be an idiot, come over here,” Steven answered, and he drew back the covers and shifted aside.

The bed would be big enough for both of them but James was mortified.

“In the bed?” he said.

“Yeah. Come on, you shared a bedroll before, I’m gettin’ cold.”

James stared at him for a moment longer but nodded eventually, making his way hesitantly toward the bed.

“Where’d you see it?” Steven asked as James got into bed beside him, and James tracked where the movement had been with his outstretched hand.

“Coming this way,” he said. “Toward me from over there.”

“Mph, well, shit,” Steven muttered, and got out of the other side of the bed. “Aright, shift over.”

James frowned but did as he asked, so that he was on the other side of the bed from the side on which he’d seen the figure. And then Steven went around and got into bed on that side instead, so that he’d be between James and the place where James had seen the figure in the other room. Then he grabbed a pillow and stuffed it down between them so that it would be at James’ back and hips. After that, he moved closer. 

“Come on, back to front,” Steven said, pressing close, and James felt his face flame as Steven moved up against him, bringing his front to James’ back, just as he said. Steven pressed himself full length against James aside from the pillow between them, his body blissfully warm, and he tucked an arm over James’ waist. “Alright,” he said. “Good?”

And…James’ first instinct was to make himself small, to shy away.He could feel the shape of Steven’s body just from this contact alone. But he must have done this in the war, hadn’t he? Most men had? Being on watch, sharing space - the only difference was that this was a pleasant surface on which to lie. 

“Yeah,” he said in the darkness. 

Steven was broad and strong and he turned his head into the pillow under his head so that he didn’t breathe directly down James’ neck, and he shifted them both a little so that they were tight together but not stiff as boards. His chest moved with his breaths, and his hand was a warm weight against James’ stomach, his arm over James’ waist a reassurance. James hadn’t realized how cold he was in the other room, and felt his anxiety ease. If anything came to his bedside, Steven would be with him. They could face it together. 

“Sure you’re okay?” Steven asked eventually, though he sounded less awake, and James nodded.

“I thought we were gonna play cards,” he said honestly, and Steven’s arm squeezed him for a moment.

“Mmmmh,” Steven answered, his voice already slowing, losing most of the vowels to muffled consonants. “Play cards tomorrow.”

And it occurred to James then that Steven had not questioned him, nor ridiculed. He had not even taken James’ recounting for fiction, until James himself had told him so.

Out of all the things James might have said to him, Steven met ‘I saw a figure’ with all the gravity and urgency of a real encounter. He had been willing to believe something amiss on nothing more than James’ word.

And so James lay still beneath the covers, Steven’s body a shield at his back, and let the sound of Steven’s breathing lull him back to sleep.

***

When James woke, it was slowly. He was warm - so warm that the drowsiness of waking did not dissipate immediately, as it usually did. Instead, he lay still with his head on the pillow, surrounded by warmth and the scent of Steven’s bedclothes. He knew where he was, had not mistaken this for his own room, and the sun was turning the leaves on the trees outside green, brightly, so that all he could see through the wide, tall spread of the bay window was blue sky and white cloud and the green, swaying mass of Midwood’s forest. There was birdsong, from birds he did not yet know, and he could tell from the color of the light that it must be very early morning. It couldn’t be beyond six or so.

He stared at the sky from where he lay, and found that nothing in particular came to mind. Steven’s sheets smelled of him, and James was surprised at how much he could recognize without an distraction from it. There was his cologne - cedar, perhaps, and citrus, with something herbal alongside. There, too, was salt, rich and warm, and clean sweat on the fresh cotton with the soap he used, and perhaps even his shaving cream, too.

James hadn’t known so much could exist in one place, or that it could all combine to be such a comfort. It felt like old wood and rough sheets and creaking springs, and he closed his eyes and breathed deeply of it, comforted by the fact that it seemed to make him think of _safety_ and not a stranger, not fear or something unknown. He had no need to move - his blood felt thick and the air felt close, wrapping him up in the warmth of a comfort he hadn’t known could exist. If sleeping beside Steven meant waking up like this each morning, James would happily ask him to share from now onward.

It couldn’t be, of course - Steven would want more from him than proximity, wouldn’t he? Sharing James’ room, rather than sharing Steven’s, would be some unspoken signal. But, like this, spending the night in Steven’s bed, even though it was Steven’s room, left him lighter, had him waking easily instead of from fitful sleep or a restless night. Surely it was folly to think sleeping alongside someone else had quieted his nightmares, for he remembered still some images he’d rather had been left forgotten, but lying here was easy. Breathing quietly, lying still, thinking of nothing but how blue the sky and how green the trees.

“Hmm,” Steven said softly, the sound a rumble through his chest and into James’ spine, and even that was a comfort. 

His body shifted, a simple movement from limbs and torso as his body began to wake, and his head turned, James heard his hair on the fabric. And then he sighed against the back of James’ neck and lay still for a while. 

James wasn’t worried, or regretful. He wasn’t apprehensive of Steven’s waking, did not feel out of place or that he might be unwanted. In fact, he hadn’t felt anywhere near this peaceful or at ease anywhere else in the house, not even the library. Steven shifted again, his body moving head to toe, and he gave a gentle sigh that ruffled the hair on the back of James’ neck. His arm tightened over James’ waist, and he pressed his face forward just a little, and James was struck by the intimacy in it. 

“Hmm,” he said again, and this time pressed his forehead to the back of James’ shoulder.

James turned his head back a little, just out of instinct. 

“Wannageddup?” Steven said, the words coming out all at once, his voice like a distant ruble of thunder through James’ bones. 

“No,” he answered softly, settling his hand on Steven’s forearm, feeling coarse hair over smooth skin, and he said it because he didn’t have to think on the answer. He said it because it was true. “No.”

“Mmmmm,” Steven answered, and then he settled himself once more, and slept on.

James wondered if the man he’d been before, during the war, before it, had ever cared for anyone like this, enough that the breaking day felt distant, and the only thing that felt real was a gentle embrace and the slow, steady rise and fall of Steven’s chest against his back.

***

They woke for the day at around half past eight, and Steven’ stretched audibly as he rolled onto his back. It left James without the heat of his body, but he too turned onto his back, so that he could watch Steven. When he had finished stretching his arms and legs, he looked at James, his eyes half closed, and smiled dopily.

“Good morning,” he said, and settled his hands on his stomach. “Did you sleep alright?”

James nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “Actually I did.”

Steven looked at him a moment longer, and then his smile faded.

“You wanna talk about it?” 

And James felt his own smile slip a little, too.

“Not really,” he said. “I saw someone walk up the side of the bed and disappear behind a bedpost.”

Steven tensed a little, James saw him, and made a small sound of displeasure. 

“That sounds like a barrel of fun,” he said. “You sure you don’t want me to come in and take a look? You’re sure you were dreaming?” 

And James laughed, bemused.

“Am I sure?” he said. “What the devil d’you mean?”

Steven rolled one shoulder in a shrug and turned his head back again to stare at the ceiling the canopy made above them. 

“I dunno,” he said quietly. “I’ve…” and then he chuckled a little - at least, that was the sound. His face remained blank. “You see a lot you didn’t think could happen.”

And James knew, instantly. You certainly did - you saw all _kinds_ of things in a war, couldn’t help it. Men who died from percussive force and seemed merely to be sleeping on the outside. Men who were little more than piecemeal and somehow still called out for help. Flashes of orange and blue and cries and groans and-

“I’m sorry,” Steven was saying - was leaning over him now, with one hand close to James’ face. “I’m sorry, darling, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

And James shook his head to dispel the ache there. Steven had never called him darling before, and it remained foremost in his mind while the rest faded. 

“It’s alright,” he said softly, and reached up to touch his hand to Steven’s face. 

There grew between them a moment of stillness, which James could no more ignore than he could move away. Lying with him, and staring up at him, James wished he could stay, wished he could invite Steven to share his own bed, wished that he could pull him down in that instant and forget about breakfast or the library or the rest of the day.

“I don’t mean to be forward,” Steven said softly.

“I wish I could stand for you to be more forward,” James answered, and Steven nodded slowly, searching his face as he sighed.

“Shall we get up and go to breakfast?” he asked, and James nodded.

“That’s probably a good idea,” he said. 

Steven smiled warmly, and then moved away from him and got out of bed, carrying his pillow in front of him as he went into his bathroom. 

It took a moment for James to understand why. Once he did, he couldn’t help smiling to himself about it, even as he went back to his room to dress and shave.

He washed as always, wiped the mirror down, and picked out his clothes for the day.

***

The preparations for the Fourth of July began in the second week of May, although Steven assured him there was little to be done about it.

“How many guests will we be having for the party?” James asked, when they took a stroll through the woods.

Since that first night, he had spent each one subsequently in Steven’s bed, a pillow between them and, though his dreams were still difficult, he would wake each time to the familiar scent and warm embrace of Steven - either sleeping or half-awake.

“Oh, not too many,” he answered. “Used to have great dances and huge parties in this place but…we don’t need that. It’ll just be us, don’t worry. Maybe a couple of others - Angie, Peggy’s wife. A couple of their friends, maybe. Anybody you can think of?”

“With a month to get here?” he said.

“Yeah,” Steven answered. “You wanna drag Howard over?”

And James laughed. 

“We could invite him, I guess,” he said. “Can’t imagine he’ll wanna drop everything for a private little do, though.”

Steven tilted his head a little.

“Eh, you never know. He’s full of surprises, that guy.”

The trees were beginning to show themselves for their true colors now, and the smell of them was crisp and fresh. Alpine had taken to sitting in a certain patch of sunlight in the morning room, trotting into the library later in the day to follow the bright yellow square and take advantage, or heading outside in the middle of the day to bask on the stone terrace. 

“Don’t people from the village come up?” James asked, and Steven shook his head. 

“Sometimes,” he said, “to see the house, but not for the party. They used to, I’m told. People would come from counties over to parties here but…I’m not that kinda guy. Just give me my friends and they’re all the family I need.”

James smiled. 

“And the fancy dress?”

“Oh, nono,” Steven answered. “That wasn’t my idea.”

James tried not to let his surprise or disappointment show, but it made him cold to think about. All of them here, at Midwood, expected a party, and to dress up, and to revel in each others’ company. He wondered, given that the fancy dress was not Steven’s idea, just how much of their revelry was hers. How often had she held a party here, or a ball, or a dance, for them to come to expect it? How would he compare to her, how would the event he hosted with Steven compare to the ones she had run?

“Is there anything I can be doing?” he asked, trying to sound as offhand as he wished he felt. 

Steven sighed gustily.

“I don’t think so?” he said. “I can ask, of course, but…generally we just set out what food there is and help ourselves, have some music, y’know. We make an occasion of it.”

“You sound like you’re already ready for it to be over.”

And Steven drew a deep breath in through his nose and breathed out very slowly. 

“It’s not just Independence Day,” he said. “It’s also my birthday.”

James felt his mouth fall open.

“What?” he said. “When were you gonna tell me, pal?” 

And Steven laughed weakly.

“Wait,” he said. “It’s also my wedding anniversary.”

And here he looked at James, slowing to a stop.

“See that face? That’s why I didn’t want to tell you,” he said, wryly. “Listen, It’s…a lot of different things. But it’s nice for everyone to get together, gives me an excuse to have everyone near to me. It can be…hard.”

James stared at him, his mind racing. 

So the fourth of July would forever be his birthday, forever his wedding anniversary. 

“Your,” James said lamely. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

“Oh, well,” Steven said, sounding rueful but not pained. “You only didn’t know ‘cause I didn’t tell you.”

How awful for both of them, then. Each birthday would be a reminder of what he’d lost and, with it, would forever be impossible to ignore. Each birthday would be celebrated in the streets, but each anniversary would be met with cheering and fireworks. James would never again see the fourth of July as a celebration or, at least, not completely as one. 

“We don’t have to have a party,” James told him. “I know the others are looking forward to it but…”

But the house was his, wasn’t it? The staff were under his employ? Steven shook his head. 

“Course we do,” he said. “Anyway, it’s not so bad now that you’re here.”

James’ heart ached for him. 

“But every year,” he said softly, and Steven rolled one shoulder, lifting his head to look up at the canopy over their heads.

“I guess we’ll just have to get married on yours instead,” he said, and then looked at James with such intensity that James could scarcely breathe.

For a long few moments, neither of them said anything, and then Steven shook his head. 

“Damn,” he muttered and then, earnestly, “can I kiss you?”

James blinked at him.

“What?” he laughed, surprised into it, but Steven wasn’t deterred. 

“I would very much like to kiss you,” he said. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

“Well hang on a second, there, pal, didn’t you just propose to me?” 

Steven’s eyebrows rose. 

“Pal, I proposed to you on the, uh, room in the hotel in Monte, didn’t I?” James laughed. “No?” Steven said, grinning. “Didn’t I? I thought I did. I clearly remember saying,” and here he spread a hand out in the air in front of him, as though visualizing a movie screen. “ ‘Darling!’-” he turned to look at James. “That’s you,” and James barked out a laugh that took him by surprise, as Steven turned back, “ ‘-Darling, I can’t live without you, will you marry me?” 

And James laughed, but Steven lowered his hand and looked at him.

“Remember?”

“Must’ve slipped my mind,” James chuckled, and Steven nodded, and turned to face him properly. 

“Oh, of course,” he said softly.

“Haven’t you heard, pal? I got head problems.”

Steven let go of his arm to hold him better, to take his elbow in one hand and set his other against James’ waist, as he was wont to do.

“Then let me remind you,” he said, bringing himself level with James, staring into his eyes as he seemed to settle somehow. “Darling.” And it made James’ breath catch, made his heart stutter in his chest. “Darling, I can’t live without you,” he said softly, his head shaking minutely. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Will you marry me?”

James stared at him.

“Didn’t,” he said, “you already propose to me in Monte?”

Steven stared at him for a long few seconds and then made a soft little sound of amusement. 

“I mean yes!” James said. “But didn’t I already say yes in Monte?”

Steven laughed, and nodded.

“I guess you did,” he said. “So that makes both of us, right? I ask you there and here, and you say yes to both?”

“Yes to both,” James says, in agreement, but out of everything that’s just transpired it’s _that_ that gives Steven pause.

“James,” he said softly, moving so little that even James and his sniper’s eyes were impressed by his stillness. “May I kiss you?”

And James nodded, mute. 

Steven cradled James’ head in one hand, brought his other arm around James’ body, as he had in the rose garden. Now, just as he had then, he moved his head slowly, brought them together slowly, and ended the kiss between them after only a few moments. This time, when they parted, Steven pressed his forehead to James’ for a moment before drawing away. 

“Come on,” Steven told him, holding out his arm again, and James took it, and so they set off again. “Otherwise I’ll never stop and supper’ll go cold and they’ll send Dum Dum out to look for us, God forbid.”

James breathed in deeply as they walked. It was warm today, but still not shirtsleeve weather, and Steven often took his arm as they walked. He asked every time, made certain that James didn’t want to keep his only arm to himself, but he didn’t. If Steven offered, James would take his arm. He could almost feel his left today, almost sense the cloth that he would have under his hand if, when Steven linked their arms, he rested his own against Steven’s forearm. His mother’s voice came back to him again - _that’s what happens if you walk around with your hands in your pockets_ \- the inherent knowledge of not occupying both hands at once when you might need one to catch you, and what happened if you didn’t do as you were told. 

He could picture a bloody nose - someone’s, though he suspected not his own - and had the strangest feeling about it. 

_He had to have his hands in his pockets, Ma, he ain’t got no gloves!_ but…it felt like a lie - or, at least, half of one. 

_The kid ain’t go no gloves,_ that much was right. But that wasn’t why his nose was bloody. 

“Y’okay?” Steven asked, slowing, and James nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “I just get the feeling there’s a lot I don’t know. You know? It feels like it’s right there under the surface and…” He sighed. “My doctors think if I break the ice I’ll fall through.”

They walked in silence for a few moments, until Steven said,

“You don’t?” 

James shrugged, shook his head. 

“I don’t know anything about it,” he said. “I’m not a doctor.”

But, really, what it felt like was that, sometimes, he might be on the other side of the ice, beating against it with his fists. And if only he could crack it in one place, the cracks would run, and the ice would shatter, and he’d finally, miraculously, be able to breathe.

***

Each day that the sun shone, they would take lunch outside, under the chestnut. James learned not to be disheartened in the mornings, if he woke to fog or mist - it would roll in off the sea and dissipate with the rising of the sun, and days that began with miserable gloom would often brighten by the time breakfast was over.

They rarely lunched alone, often sitting with one or two of the others at the table, and often whiling away the afternoon. Sometimes, Steven would move their furniture to be in greater sunlight, or in less of it, depending on James’ mood, and they would sit and talk and laugh with one another about anything that took their fancy. They learned, too, that there were many stories from before Steven had known his men, that James could listen to without fear of learning something better left unlearned, and so James grew closer to almost all the members of the household or, almost all, at least.

In the afternoons following rain, or a heavier fog that took longer to lift, they would lunch on the long stone terrace at the West wing, which would be dry by about twelve or so as the daylight advanced and the shadows retreated. Summer was well on its way, and James was glad for it. He hated the cold, or even the threat of it - what was more, with the warming weather, Steven took to wearing summer suits more often, and they suited him. His skin was pale, and his hair golden, so that light linens gave him the air of a man in better health than the darker suits would imply, though James couldn’t deny the appeal of him in a pale shirt and navy suit as well. He disliked the occasions when Steven would wear dark colors next to his skin, for reasons he could not entirely discern.

“It makes you look ill,” he said one evening, when Steven noticed - for Steven noticed everything. “I don’t like it. It makes me feel as though you might collapse at any minute.”

And Steven had nodded, surprised and contrite all at once.

“All right,” he said. “All right, sweetheart.”

And it was something James was acutely aware of that Steven would listen to him, would hear and believe him without fail. On the nights that he dreamt of someone wandering the gardens like a shadow, or the few and far-between occasions that a shadow would have his heart racing in his chest, Steven would always ask him first if there were something to be done about it, rather than imply it was nothing. Each time, James’ heart ached with gratitude, for he remembered meeting doctors whose opinions were mainly that James was weak, or delusional, or both. Nor did Steven ever accept his apologies, his stumbling platitudes, when he would come awake in the middle of the night.

“Listen, pal, you and I seen some _shit_ ,” Steven muttered to him late one night, one hand soothing against his back, when James had turned toward him in their bed and hidden his face against Steven’s shoulder. “Ain’t a damn thing you gotta be sorry for.”

Even Miss Carter seemed to be present less and less, and that lent an ease to James’ days that he hadn’t realized he longed for. 

She only startled him once, in fact, during that whole time. Out on the terrace, waiting for Steven, James saw her twitch a curtain back in place in one of the rooms in the West wing, high over his head. He thought it the master bedroom, in fact, but ignored it once he understood. He was proven right not long after - he saw her at the top of the stairs and paused to look at her, and she turned away slowly, contritely almost. 

He could understand it, of course. The more distance he had from her, the more sense it made - if she had cared for Rebecca with any amount of the care the others showed him, it would be hard enough to lose her. But for Steven to arrive with someone new here, she might easily see it as his being there to take her place. He wondered if an olive branch might be in order, but had no idea how to go about extending one. He thought perhaps that he might try to smile the next time he saw her, try another time to engage her in conversation. But he did not see her, for the most part. He might catch a glimpse of her at a task, or notice her heading to another part of the house, but he did not encounter her properly. That, too, seemed to be a reasonable development - if she _were_ contrite, if she _had_ noticed his discomfort and felt truly sorry for it, she might try to avoid him as he had tried to avoid her. 

One morning, fairly late on,when Steven had taken Monty with him in the car and was busy in the village, James heard voices from the drawing room. He had been on his way to the morning room to try and locate Alpine, but recognized only one of the voices and, curious, he knocked and went in.

Miss Carter was there, with a tall, blond man who looked at him once, and then stared. The man had perched on the edge of the desk in that room, and had one foot up on the edge of the nearest chair. James noticed it but did not mention it - he needed first to find out what manner of man this was.

“Well,” the man said softly, lifting his head. 

“Quiet about it,” she answered him, admonishing, and then to James, “sorry. Just…This is…Mr Thompson.”

“How d’you do?” James said, trying to project confidence though he was wary. 

Perhaps this was a friend of Steven’s, whom he did not yet know.

Thompson stood and extended a hand to him. 

“How d’you do?” he said as James took it, and his inflection was so unreadable that James couldn’t tell whether it was a question or a mocking imitation. The fact that he was American made it all the harder. “Well come on,” he said, and he smiled. “You can walk me out to my car, huh?” The smile did not reach his eyes, and James felt unnerved by him, felt for certain that this was not a man in front of whom his affections for Steven would be safely displayed. 

“I can walk you there,” Miss Carter said, and he shook his head at her.

“It’s alright,” he said, and then looked at James, his eyebrows raised. “Isn’t it?”

“Of course,” James answered, glancing at Miss Carter. She appeared somewhere between annoyed and concerned. 

“Really, Jack,” she muttered, a warning, but Mr Thompson was already walking.

“Don’t sweat it, Peg,” he said. “It’s all sewn up, I just thought you’d like notice.”

James watched her carefully, and she, to his surprise, smiled at him hesitantly. Perhaps, then, a bridge could be built between them. He followed after Thompson.

“So how long you here?” Thompson asked as they walked.

He walked quickly, as though he had somewhere else to be, and James shook his head.

“We’ve been back since March,” he said. 

“No, I mean how long you here for?” Thompson answered. “The Summer?”

“No, I…” James answered, and then floundered for what to say. “I live here now,” he settled on eventually.

“Oh, well,” Thompson answered, and he smiled a little distractedly, still far from genuine. “That’s good of him, isn’t it?”

They left the house, and James expected Thompson’s car to be waiting for them, but it was not. At least, Thompson’s car was not where he expected it to be. Instead, Thompson took him around the side of the house, more toward the East wing, and James found that it was there he had sequestered his car away.

“Well, good to meetcha,” Thompson said, and James came up a little short behind him.

“Oh,” he said. “Yes. You too.”

But Thompson hadn’t finished.

“And listen,” he said, ducking his head. “Maybe we don’t need to tell the old ‘Master of the House’ about this little visit, no?” 

James blinked at him.

“What?” he said.

“Well, y’know. He doesn’t like me much and that’s why I came to see Peggy when he wasn’t about. Nothing untoward, you understand, just…less hassle for everybody. Right?”

“Right,” James echoed, his mind awhirl.

Thompson went to clap a hand against James’ upper arm, but he chose the left. His palm impacted against the side of James’ ribs, given that there was no upper arm to touch, and he blinked in surprise before he regained himself. And then he smiled another of those smiles and got into his car. 

James watched after him for a long moment, until it turned the corner, and then he turned back to the house. 

When he went around to the door once more, Miss Carter was there, waiting. She gave him a tight smile, and stood back to let him past. He went straight toward the library, and she walked quickly away from him without looking back.

~

James deliberated over it. It had seemed that Miss Carter had been made more than uncomfortable by Thompson’s presence, and James inherently didn’t like him. Not from a first meeting anyhow and, if James kept that information from Steven…

It turned out that it didn’t matter in the slightest. 

When Steven and Monty got back, James heard the car on the gravel - he’d been on edge since Thompson had left and was tapping his fingers against the small table by the couch in the Library in a manner that had drawn Captain’s attention, and he tried not to leap up as Steven and Monty walked in.

“Hi!” Steven said, smiling brightly, and James smiled back at him.

They weren’t yet kissing at each greeting, but Monty smiled and averted his gaze as Steven pulled him close for an embrace all the same. 

“Have a good time?” James asked, aware that Monty was leaving.

“Oh yeah,” Steven answered. “Got a couple nice little pastries we can eat after lunch, if you fancy it?” 

“That’s,” James said. “I actually really would, pal, but I gotta speak to Monty about somethin’.”

Steven’s eyebrows came down.

“Y’okay?”

“Oh sure,” James told him, trying to make it sound like the truth. “Sure, no problem. Just…” He pointed after Monty.

“Right,” Steven answered, clearly confused.

But James followed Monty, hurrying to reach him.

“Monty!” he said, immediately regretting his decision to shout after him - this was not the type of house in which one ought to shout. 

Monty heard him, thank God, and stopped, turning back to him, jacket over one arm, his almost-ever-present newspaper in his hand.

“Hullo,” he said, frowning. “Anything I can do you for you, old boy?” 

“Listen, I,” James said, and glanced back.

He knew Steven wasn’t following him, but he felt compelled to check nonetheless. 

“I say-” Monty said, and it sounded sympathetic but James held up his hands.

“No, wait,” he said, keeping his voice low in the hope that Monty would follow suit, “just hear me out. I…There was…someone here today.”

Monty frowned.

“Oh?” he said. “Someone I know?”

“I don’t know,” James answered, “but he…he told me not to tell Steven he’d been here.”

Monty’s frown deepened, and he shifted on his feet?

“Oh?” he said, raising one sardonic eyebrow. “Sounds perfectly above-board, I’m sure - did he give you a name?”

James chewed his lip for a moment.

“Yeah,” he said. “Thompson.”

Monty’s whole expression cleared, his eyebrows raising as his head went back.

“Was it, by Jove,” he said, not a question at all, his voice hard. “That blighter indeed. What did he want?”

And James realized suddenly that he’d have to tell Monty. He’d started it now, he couldn’t very well say nothing.

“I don’t know,” James told him. “They were speaking in the drawing room and then he left, and he told me not to tell the master of the house.”

For a moment, Monty simply stared at him, and then he gave a soft huff of laughter.

“Yes, I imagine he did,” he said. “Never liked him, if I’m honest - doesn’t ever seem to have any respect about him. This was today, was it?”

“Yeah,” James said. “While Steven was out. And I…I don’t want to keep it from Steven but…”

“No, no,” Monty told him, shaking his head. “It’s alright, you probably don’t have to. I can’t imagine Thompson was hanging around without anyone seeing him. Let me have a word with the boys and see if anyone else knew he was about.”

James nodded.

“I just…I’m a little…I mean, I seem to be….In…Miss Carter’s way a lot?” 

Monty frowned at him.

“I shouldn’t have thought so, Sir, but I won’t get her mixed up in it if that’s what you mean.”

“Thank you,” James said, nodding. “I feel like an idiot but…”

“Not at all, Sir,” Monty answered kindly. “Not at all. Is there anything else I can help you with?” 

“No,” James told him. “No, I don’t think so.”

Monty nodded.

“Alright,” he said. “Do let me know, though. Yes?”

James nodded too.

“Yeah,” he said. “Thank you. Yeah.”

Monty smiled at him, and James set about going back to the Library, to Steven. 

He did his best to think of the affair no more. Monty would see to it that everything went correctly, that Steven knew what Steven ought to know. James was greatly comforted by the fact that most of the people in the house seemed to like him, and trust him, and take him at his word. There seemed to be nothing more made of it, and James let it slip his mind.

***

“You got any ideas for your costume yet?” Steven said over their evening meal towards the end of April, and James tried not to make his surprise so obvious.

“Uh,” he said. 

“It’s alright if you don’t,” Steven told him. “I’m gonna do something easy. Big fluffy shirt, weskit, Venetian mask - make a reasonable fairytale somethingorother. You know?”

“I…” James said, and wracked his brain for something he could say. 

“It’s okay if you don’t,” Steven said again, but James suddenly realized this was an opportunity in disguise. 

He still had a month to find something, and then he could surprise Steven with it.

“No, I’ve thought of something,” he said. “I’m…I just. Y’know, it’s a secret.”

Steven looked like he wasn’t convinced, and as though he was fully prepared to go along with it.

“Oh yeah?” he said, and James tapped his leg under the table with the edge of his foot.

Steven startled so hard he made the crockery jump, and then he laughed.

“Alright!” he said. “Alright, I’m sorry. I will wait and see about your lovely surprise, I’m sure I’ll be knocked off my feet.”

“Good,” James answered.

“And if you actually would like help, there’s a ton of old clothes here and I got a guy in London does all my fancy schmancy suits if I gotta look nice for somethin’.”

“Right,” James nodded. “Anyway, what about you, you know what you want for your birthday?”

Steven shook his head.

“Call me corny,” he said, “but I got everything I don’t need. I got paints, I got books, and it’s nice but that stuff can go to hell for all I care. I got my friends, and I got you. What else do I need?”

James nodded.

“That sure _is_ corny,” and the corners of Steven’s eyes wrinkled up as he smiled.

“Color me completely unconcerned,” he said. “I don’t give a fig about it, all I want’s what I got. What I got’s all I need.”

James laughed a little, and resolved in that instant to but him something for his art - perhaps he could send to London for paintbrushes, or for pencils, or for more of the lovely paper that seemed to hang about in every room. And so, at least as far as finding out what Steven wanted, he’d let it go.

“So for no reason in particular,” he said, pronouncing it ‘pa-tickle-ah’ because he thought Steven might get a kick out of it, “what’s the name of your guy in London?” 

Steven laughed openly then, thereby proving James right, and shook his head as he smiled warmly. 

“I’ll get you his card after dinner,” he said. 

~

Once they had finished eating for the evening was still warm and bright enough that they could have eaten outside, and they went for a walk as they often did in the evenings. This time, Captain had had his fill with Gabe and Jacques earlier, and so they left him inside by the fireplace and walked around the lawn instead. James didn’t want to be in the rose garden or the wood at this time of night, and he was quite happy to wander the lawn and stay in view of the house. But Steven had a tendency toward the maudlin at times, and the sun was already setting out over on the water.

They were standing together, watching it - the green, rolling hills either side of them, the vast expanse of steel blue water before them, and the blazing trail that the setting sun had painted across the waves like the bright washes of gold and crimson that flowed from Steven’s paintbrushes - when Steven spoke.

“Are you happy here, James?” he asked, and James was so startled by the question that he turned his head sharply to look at Steven.

“I’ve barely been here three months,” he answered. “But for those three months I can’t think I’ve had any reason not to be.”

“Hm,” Steven murmured. “Only…I wonder if I did a very selfish thing in bringing you here.”

He spoke slowly, carefully, and James felt ill all of a sudden in the face of it. 

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“I mean that I’m not much of a companion to you,” Steven answered. “I worry that there’s not enough between us, or too much, maybe.”

“What?” James said, and turned to look at him properly. “What are you talking about?”

“I didn’t give you much of a chance,” Steven said. “I rushed you into all of this, didn’t I? You might have wanted someone else-”

“And who else?” James asked him. “Huh? One of the pretty people at Howard’s parties? Or some little thing I could pick up off the street?”

Steven flinched a little then.

“You really are a fool, aren’t you?” James said, and Steven shook his head.

“I’m terrified that I’ve pulled you into this,” he said. “That I didn’t give you chance to think about it, that I didn’t let you consider it.”

“Listen,” James told him, “get it through your head that there wasn’t a damn thing to think about. Alright?”

And Steven looked at him with such pain in his eyes when he spoke next.

“How on earth can you be sure?”

He knew, without knowing how he knew, that he would want that from Steven. That if Steven held him close and followed a path from his shoulder to his throat with gentle kisses that he’d near enough come apart with it. That if Steven lay behind him in the bed, with his hands settled low on James’ stomach, the blood would heat in his veins. He wasn’t any stranger to wanting, alone and starved for touch, but it hadn’t had a face to it, or a voice to it, until he’d met Steven de Winter. 

“I know what I want,” he said, “I’ve wanted you since Monte. And the time’ll come when I can be ready to ask you for it.”

“Please,” Steven murmured, “don’t feel that you have to do a damn thing, bu- But I…Just. I just want for you to be happy. And if it’s not with me then I’d want for you to be happy anyway.”

“I don’t know where you get this shit,” James said, “but you can shovel it back ‘cause it ain’t a goddamn thing to do with me.” And he took Steven’s hand in his own. “Do you trust me to mean what I say?” 

And Steven looked at him, nodding. 

“Right,” James said. “Then trust me when I tell you I love you, would you? Because I do?” 

“Oh, you-” Steven said, his voice rough and his shoulders sagging. “Oh.” And he nodded, seeming to fold in on himself as he did. 

James stepped forward and gave him as much of an embrace as he could. 

“Where did all this come from?” he asked, as Steven’s arms came up around him. “How’d you get so twisted up about it all, huh?”

Steven didn’t answer - likely because there wasn’t any answer to give. There were days when waking and eating and bathing were easy, and there were days when those things were hard. James had had both, many of each in fact.

“I seem to remember something about sickness _and_ in health,” James told him, and Steven made an odd sound against his shoulder. “So don’t think that just because you’re feelin’ blue about somethin’ means I’m gonna stop carin’, okay?”

“I love you,” Steven said into his neck, and James realized that this was the first time - that neither of them had said until they’d both just said it now. “I love you.”

“Well, just as well,” James said quietly. “That makes the both of us then, doesn’t it?”

~

They went back to the house shortly thereafter, intending to go to bed. There was no need for them to spend hours awake in the library when they could spend hours awake in a warm bed or a quiet space, without disturbances.

“Anybody joinin’ me’n the boys for cards?” Dum Dum asked on their way in, but James shook his head.

“An early night for us, I think,” he said, Steven’s hand still in his. 

Dum Dum glanced down and noticed, and then nodded.

“A’right,” he said. “Sleep well, both of you. I’m gonna see if I can get that twenty back off Monty.”

 _“Twenty,_ Jesus,” Steven muttered, but he was smiling when he did. 

They walked together, towards the stairs, and Steven was just turning to say something when James heard footsteps coming up one of the passages.

 _“Capitaine?”_ Jacques’ voice said, and he came up short when he saw them both standing there, an apology in his eyes a moment later. _“Il y a quelqu'un au téléphone pour vous. Sousa?”_

Steven’s back went straighter, his head came up, and James frowned.

“Shit, this time of night?” Steven said, and then he drew a deep breath and looked at James. 

“Sousa?” James asked.

“Somebody I used to work with,” Steven told him, letting go of his hand but turning to face him nonetheless. “I… I just need to make sure everybody’s alright.”

“Sure,” James said, but he wasn’t sure, not by a long shot. 

Steven gave him a tight little smile and then went past Jacques, and then Jacques looked at James.

_“Je suis désolé. Ce n'est qu'un message.”_

Just a message indeed.

James wasn’t sure what was wrong, but he felt that something was. It seemed strange to him that Steven - in his country house in the south of England with nothing to do all day but take care of the estate and paint - would be someone’s first point of contact. 

“Right,” James said. 

And, for a long few moments, they stood in complete silence. 

_“Avez-vous apprécié votre promenade?”_ Jacques asked, and James nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “We didn’t go far, Just stayed on the lawn, watched the sun set.”

“Hmm,” Monty said. _“Ah. Et ... Aimez-vous les livres de la bibliothèque?”_

“Oh sure,” James nodded. “Yeah, it’s- I’ve read so many now,” and he laughed a little. “They’re great. I really- The science in them, it’s. Fantastic.”

Jacques nodded again. 

They stood there for a few moments in silence, and Monty bounced on his heels a little.

 _“Ah, êtes-vous prêt pour la fête?”_ he said, and James rolled his eyes.

“No,” he said, “oh my God, not even close. I told Steven I figured something out but I got no idea.”

Jacques laughed.

 _“Oui,”_ he said, but then they were standing in silence again. 

James risked a glance at him, but saw that Jacques seemed to be just as unsure of what to say as he did himself.

“Ey, where’s the Frog?” Dum Dum yelled from inside the morning room and, though Jacques rolled his eyes, they both laughed quietly together. 

“Go on,” James said. “I don’t mind. I’ll head upstairs, you have fun.”

 _“D’accord?”_ Jacques said, and James nodded.

“Sure,” he said, smiling a little. 

Jacques smiled, too, setting his hand on James’ shoulder.

 _“Merci,”_ he said softly, and then he moved away, his feet light on the floor but his steps still echoing. “Bonne niut!”

“Yeah, _bonne nuit,”_ James said, and he turned to keep going, to go upstairs and to the bedroom. 

And, when he did, he found that he was not alone. Standing by the foot of the stairs was Miss Carter, in her house clothes, her hands clasped in front of her. He turned quite cold at the sight of her, and wondered what on earth she wanted from him. He wished he had Steven with him, wished he had somewhere else to go besides the direction he had so obviously taken, but she smiled at him tightly. 

“I wasn’t sure if you were aware,” she said, and she sounded stilted, as though unsure of herself. “There’s old clothing in the house that you might want to wear for the party. It’s not much but there was plenty left here after the war - men who went home didn’t need their uniforms, after all.”

There was a different type of man who didn’t need their uniforms, too, but James resolved not to think about that.

“Thank you,” he said, waiting for the piece of the puzzle he was sure he was missing. 

But it didn’t come. She just stood there and looked at him.

“A-And,” she said softly, “I know that you’re having a little trouble with choosing a costume. Might I suggest one of the portraits in the gallery? We have somewhere a pair of dark jodhpurs, or even an older suit, if you should like.”

And James stared at her. She sounded contrite, almost friendly. Could it be that she’d finally come around to him? Or perhaps she was grateful for James’ silence following Thompson’s visit. 

“I’ll certainly think about it,” he said, because it _was_ a good idea. 

It might be fun, too, to dress as someone from the household. It might make him feel more as though he belonged to the place, more as though this could be where he was. And it made sense, too, he had his pick of people from the pictures.

“I’ve often thought it might be better to have the celebrations themed to the same era, it makes much more sense to me.”

“Well,” James said, still a little unsure of their conversation. “I imagine people like the thrill of choosing something unusual.”

“Oh, most likely,” she said, and James marveled at how friendly she sounded, how earnest. Was this the olive branch he had wondered about? “Let me know, anyhow. There’s plenty that would match any of the portraits, and you do so look like the portrait of James George.”

“Do I?” James asked. 

J.G. had been a man with dark hair and blue eyes - perhaps he did look like him after all, although he’d thought J.G. a handsomer man than he himself.

“The resemblance is more than passing,” she answered. “Don’t let me decide for you, by any means, it’s merely a suggestion. But do let me know.”

And if this really were the olive branch it sounded like? Well. If James refused it, the relationship between them might never be reparable. What was more, it was a damn good idea - it would solve his problem of what to wear and be relevant to his surroundings. 

“I think,” he said, “it’s a wonderful idea. If you’d be so kind as to help me with it?”

She didn’t smile, nor did she nod, but her eyes were warmer somehow then, and he suddenly saw the woman she’d been when they’d all played cards together, instead of the one who watched him coldly from afar.

“Of course,” she said. “I’ll arrange everything.”

And then she walked away and went into the morning room with the rest of them.

He watched after her for a moment and then, trying to keep his steps as light as Jacques’ had been, he went upstairs to Steven’s room, to wait for him.


	9. The Fourth of July

The horse chestnut, as promised, had begun to flower in mid-May, producing beautiful, tall, white candles of flowers, which Steven began to paint as soon as they appeared. 

By June, the weather warmed enough that they could bring their things out with them, and so Captain and Alpine would wander the lawn or stretch out in the sun while James wrote at his typewriter, and Steven captured their surroundings on paper so beautifully they might have been a photograph. The paper and colored pencils he had bought for Steven arrived from London, mercifully while Steven was busy with something else, and so they would be a complete surprise, and James spent much of each day picking at his typewriter. He worried that Steven should find the noise an irritation before long, but instead, above even settling into it, he seemed to seek it out. If ever James picked at it by himself, it wouldn’t be long before Steven would arrive and ask if he might sit in. 

James never refused him. James didn’t _want_ to refuse him. Steven grew closer to him every day, sharing glances or brief touches as they passed, settling into a routine that meant James looked forward to each morning, to each afternoon, each evening. Still, they slept in the same bed but did little else besides, although sometimes Steven’s arm would hold him more strongly, and Steven would press a kiss to his hair before they slept. 

Miss Carter mostly kept out of James’ way, and he was still grateful for it, though a little less afraid. His nightmares still disturbed his sleep, but he woke always to Steven - who was often awake, though sometimes still sleeping - and would spend those mornings grateful for the chance to be together, without worrying about who might talk. And though he might never truly know how to conduct himself in a house such as this, enduring what small discomfort that would be was a small price to pay for love and safety. 

There was barely a week left until the party when James woke to find himself alone one morning. He’d dreamed of snow and blood and fear and woken without Steven by his side. He dressed quickly, tucking his tie into his pocket, for he would ask Steven to tie it once he found him, and went downstairs. 

His intention was to go to the library, but heard voices on the way. One of them was Steven’s, the other was, it sounded like, Monty. As he moved closer, he realized that Steven’s voice had a sense of urgency about it, and that Monty’s interjections were few and far between.

Something, though considering it afterward would still leave him unable to determine why, made him walk slowly. Something made him listen out and approach without announcing himself, trying to make his footsteps silent on the hardwood.

“…pencil pushers whining…” James could hear, “goddamn paperclip, and if they think…” but his voice faded in an out. “…archives and sitting in the annals of history…”

He moved closer still, almost at the door to the morning room, his heart pounding in his ears. Was it eavesdropping if this were his house?

“I’m not gonna stand for it. You know as well as I do what they think of it, but that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m saying that for some reason my decision apparently holds as much water as a goddamn paper bag. Here is where I’m going to be, and here is where he’s going to be, and that’s a fact, and Sousa even-” and then Steven’s voice stopped. 

So did James. 

And, when he spoke again, His voice was loud. 

“Hello?” 

James felt as though he’d caught fire and been doused in ice water all at once. He’d been discovered. He couldn’t move - his footsteps would be heard, and his gait would be easily identifiable. 

He heard Steven coming, heard Steven’s approaching footsteps and, for one wild moment, he thought about hiding behind the door, ducking down behind the half table. And then Steven was there, head and shoulders out of the door, looking straight at him. 

James felt his mouth fall open, an apology already on his lips, his mind racing for an excuse.

And then Steven looked him up and down in surprise, before his brow came down over his eyes, a silent admonishment. But then he turned away from James, head swiveling in the other direction as he looked down the other way for a long few moments.

“Nobody,” he said. 

“Might’ve been Alpine,” Monty’s voice answered, and Steven nodded, giving James another brief glance. 

“Yeah,” he said, raising his eyebrows, and then glancing toward the staircase in silent signal. “Still.”

He turned around and went back into the room, and James started to move away, trying to leave as silently as he’d come to be there. 

“I’m serious,” Steven’s voice said. “This isn’t new, it isn’t something I’m doing on a whim. I meant every bit of it and I’m willing to make sure it happens.”

His voice started to fade again as James retreated, and he went as quickly as he could given that he was having to be as quiet as possible about it too. He went back up the stairs and hid around the corner, and he waited until Steven and Monty had left the morning room, Monty’s footsteps retreating off toward the kitchen, and Steven’s heading off toward the library. In fact, James was just coming down the stairs when Miss Carter, pale and flushed high on her cheeks, walked out of the morning room too. He’d had no idea she was there, but she saw him immediately, and fixed him with her gaze. 

He felt pinned by her, he always felt pinned by her, and did his utmost not to show her so.

“Good morning,” he said, and she inclined her head to him as she went away, but did not speak.

Still, that in itself was a great deal of improvement.

~

“What were you talking about in the morning room today?” James asked him that evening, when they sat on either side of the small table in the middle of Steven’s room. 

Steven, who had been halfway through reading his sentence aloud to James, ground to a halt. For a long few moments, he said nothing, and then he set his book flat and looked at him.

“I love you very much,” he said, “and if you’re asking me as an equal then my answer is that I’d prefer not to go into it again. It was a difficult conversation about my choices, and I put my foot down. If you demand that I tell you, I will.”

James stared at him.

“What?” he said inelegantly, and then he shook his head.

“It was private,” Steven answered. “That’s why I didn’t say that I’d caught you. I didn’t want Monty to know you were there.”

James felt himself frown, and searched Steven’s face, but he wasn’t giving anything away at all in his expression. 

“Was it about me?” he asked.

“Indirectly,” Steven told him. “Though more to do with you than about you.”

James winced.

“You know I’m….getting on a lot better with everyone here now. Don’t you?”

The last thing he wanted was to upset the tentative truce between himself and Miss Carter. 

Steven reached out and took James’ hand, lifted it so that he could press a kiss to his knuckles. 

“I do,” he said. And then, for a long time, he seemed to think about something. Eventually, he said, “are you happy here? Would you be happier somewhere else?”

And James frowned, shook his head. To be honest, the whole place felt like some grand hotel to him, some impossibly long vacation in a secluded hideaway. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be used to the long, echoing halls, the huge portraits, the multitude of rooms when one living room would do, all those places at the dining table when they only needed a few between them.

“Honestly?” he said, and Steven nodded. “I think I should be happiest wherever we are. As long as we’re there together. 

For a moment, Steven looked inexplicably sad, until James realized it was relief, and gratitude, all at once. His eyes closed slowly, and he nodded a little. 

“Good,” he said. “You know, there are times I worry about asking you questions but I oughta know better by now.”

James nodded, and let it go. If Steven didn’t want to tell him, then there was little he could do to convince him. But he couldn’t stop himself thinking of it, nor was he sure that he ought to.

***

James began to feel a little better about the party as it approached. There would be some people up from Greenwood, the village, and a couple of ex-colleagues, apparently, a couple of chaps Monty knew from the war. Mostly it would be friends and associates, but it wouldn’t even number twenty of them, and that was certainly a number James could deal with.

James’ costume was almost simple to put together - Miss Carter went with him to one of the shut-up rooms in the West wing and directed him toward the blue reefer jacket, and Monty was happy to find for him a pair of trousers that were roomy enough to pass for jodhpurs.

“What are you going as?” he asked, smiling though he seemed bemused, but James shook his head with a smile of his own.

“That’s for me to know, Pal,” he said. “Do we got any old newspapers in this joint?”

The trousers fit perfectly, much to his delight, and the jacket was a little shorter than the portrait’s, but would look handsome enough on him. He was trying his style on one afternoon, with about a week left before the party, when - before the shaving mirror in the bathroom - he used Brylcreem to part and sweep his hair and the scent, immediately, brought a full-color picture up behind in his mind. 

A mirror spotted with tarnish, his own shoulders, both of them, bare in an undershirt, and someone whistling a tune to which he knew the words.

 _Brylcreem, a little dab’ll do ya-_

And he smiled at his reflection and turned around to see-

“You alright, James?” Steven asked, for it was Steven in the doorway of the bathroom.

“Yes,” he said, confused for a moment. “Just remembering something, I think.”

Steven’s eyebrows raised, and he leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. That too seemed to jostle something deep in the recesses of his memory.

“Oh yeah?” Steven asked him, and James shook his head, a familiar throb behind his eye.

“Not much, just….a mirror. The smell of the Brylcreem.”

“Sure,” Steven answered, and raised both eyebrows. “A little dab’ll do ya, huh?” 

“Yeah,” James answered, trying to smile. “That’s the stuff.”

Steven nodded.

“Let me know if you want a hand with the cap on that stuff, alright, sweetheart?” he saida, and left him alone again.

James couldn’t help but feel like he knew something he couldn’t understand - like finding a code but not knowing what it said. 

He wiped his hand on the nearest towel and dug his knuckles into his eye. Definitely time for a rest. 

Still, with everything about the outfit secured, all he had left to do was look forward to the party itself. 

“Do you need any help with anything?” James asked Monty, who was stringing lights on the terrace, having strung them already through the rose garden, and through the woods with Dum Dum.

James had heard of parties at homes like these, how people would begin the night as civilized black-tie, and end it running rings around each other in the gardens and through the corridors. He was glad for there being so few of them that they might at least only run ragged around a few of the downstairs rooms.

“I think I’m alright, actually, Sir, but Jim could always do with a hand I’m sure.”

But Jim, who was busy with the furniture, did not have a job for him. 

Gabe and Jacques talked about it often - about the food they’d had in their respective hometowns and the rations they’d eaten in Europe. 

“You just wait,” Gabe told him. “This’ll be a spread like you’ve never seen.”

The house itself began to feel different. Furniture was moved in the great hall and somebody was always busy about something. Monty started to look decidedly harried, but Steven kept to his paintings and his walks while Captain nipped at Jacques’s heels and Alpine played with the flower arrangements. 

Miss Carter’s part in the proceedings was not overt, and yet James knew where she was almost all the time, still uneasy about her presence. He knew that the keeping of the house fell to her and so it must have been here who gave directions for the stringing of the lights, for the moving of the furniture. She, it felt to James, had always just left whenever he arrived, and James would only ever be in the way.

Steven would fetch and carry without a hair out of place, though the others seemed a little more affected by the weather, but everyone refused James’ assistance. 

He did his best not to ruminate on it, not to allow it to upset him, but the house was bustling around him in a way it had not in the four months they’d been there. Life had seemingly come back into it and James was half-terrified that everyone had been so subdued because of him, if the life hadn’t been sapped out of the place by everyone tiptoeing around him. By the time they were eating together, it was all he could think of. The menus, the seating arrangements, the music choices, the lights, the decorations and at dinner, as Steven sat down once more after cutting James’ chicken cutlet into manageable pieces for him - as he did every night - suddenly James found himself bursting forth with it.

“You know, I can carry a damn chair,” James told him, and Steven stopped with his fork halfway to his mouth.

“I…I know you can,” he said slowly, unsure. “Did…you _want_ to carry a chair?”

James put his cutlery down lest he throw it down and glared at Steven.

“I’m just saying everybody’s doing something for the dance and I’m doing nothing,” he answered. “I’m not an _invalid_ , Steven!”

Steven seemed to flinch both at his statement and at being addressed so harshly and he frowned.

“No,” he said, “bu-” and then he shook his head. “No. You know what? That’s true. Is that what you think we’re doing?”

James rubbed his hand over his eyes and tried not to despair about it. 

“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know, I don’t _know._ I can’t move the chairs, I can’t move the tables, the lights were already strung, and I wouldn’t know what to do with flowers.”

Steven reached out and took his hand.

“I’m not allowed to do much either,” he said. “But I don’t claim to know how you feel.”

James looked at him. 

“They only want me when somethin’s heavy, otherwise I ain’t much use,” Steven continued. “Is there something you want to help with? Seating, maybe, o-or…uh. I don’t know.” And then he seemed to realize something. “Oh. I don’t know,” he said, chuckling a little. “Not much good at it either, am I?”

James smiled a little. 

“Isn’t there anything else left to be done?” he asked. “I’ve been asking for days but everyone’s either almost done or else they have enough hands to the task.”

The skin over Steven’s nose went pink a little, and he looked down at his meal. 

“I’ve been relegated to paper chains,” he said softly after a moment, and he gave James a wry expression a moment later. “Apparently liftin’ really is all I’m good at party-wise. You could always help with that, I guess? With the chains and the. Paper bunting and whatnot? I could always use the company anyhow but that’s up to you.”

“You?” James said softly. “They relegated _you_ to paper chains?”

“I used to make popcorn strings at Christmas, too,” he said, pretending to be defensive about it, and James smiled a little more widely. “Awful little salt-dough angels.”

He could almost smell it, actually - the idea of it. Popcorn and pine and matches. 

“Will we do that at Christmas?” he said softly. “Shall we make popcorn strings?” 

“Sure,” Steven said, brightening. “Sure thing.”

James watched him for a few more moments. 

“I don’t want them to think of me that I won’t help,” he said. “That I can’t do anything.”

“Oh no,” Steven said softly. “No, none of them think that. It’s just I’ve got so little experience of it that it’s near enough useless trying to get me to help. Much better to leave it up to Monty.”

“And Miss Carter?” James nodded.

Steven laughed.

“Well if anyone can organize us headless chicken’s it’d be Peg. Won’t you call her Peggy?”

James wrinkled his nose. 

“Maybe once I know her better,” he said, and Steven’s smile faded a little.

But he seemed to shake it off a moment later, and went back to his meals.

“So the two of us tomorrow,” he said. “Paper decorations, eh?”

“It’s a date,” James told him, and Steven’ smiled, broadly, beautifully.

“A date,” he said.

***

True to his word, the day was spent at making paper decorations.

After breakfast, Steven spoke to Monty about it, and Monty fetched some paper for them and sequestered them away in the dining hall, at the end of the table. The colors weren’t at all hard to come by on account of them being the same colors as the British flag. 

“Well we use them too, don’t’cha know,” Monty said, wryly, and Steven only laughed at him. 

“Trust me to cut the strips do you?” he said, and Monty gave him a so-so gesture before handing over the scissors. “Oh, and say, how about some string for bunting?”

“Good god!” Gabe said, in a fair imitation of Monty. “What is the place coming to?”

“Anybody got any whiskey around?” DumDum said from somewhere, and this time it really was Monty who answered.

“Not a chance, Tim, I want bunting not a bloody disaster area.”

And James smiled.

“Alright now, here,” Steven said, passing a diamond of red paper to James. “You alright folding that in half?”

James nodded - it was tricky to do it with only one hand but, if he butted the tip of the diamond up against the vase in the middle of the able, he could fold the other point to it and flatten the seam with the heel of his hand.

“How’s this?” he said, when he’d finished the first one, and Steven glanced up from where he was cutting more. 

“Oh, fantastic,” Steven said quietly as he laid eyes on it. 

He plucked it from James’ hand and set it aside with a smile.

“Now we just need a couple hundred of ‘em.”

James laughed, and Steven blinked at him, and then James laughed all the harder for realizing it was true. 

“So who’s doing these strips?” Dum Dum said, and Steven rolled his eyes.

“Monty, we got another pair’a snips?”

~

Bunting and paper chains were much easier, it seemed, to do together. With the rest of the chores done, almost all of them sat about the table and folded paper and threaded string.

“When do you want us to stop?” Steven asked Monty, holding up one end of another strip of bunting, and the baleful look Monty gave him in return had them all laughing.

***

When they went upstairs together that night, they took turns in the bathroom, as they always did. They got into bed beside each other, and settled down, as they did each night. Steven put out the light and put a pillow between them, before pressing himself against James, one arm over his waist, as always, and then they lay there in silence.

“G’night,” Steven said softly, half asleep already.

He could sleep almost instantaneously, James had noticed and, though he said it was the stuff that made him eat much more, that meant he could lift more and throw sticks farther, James didn’t doubt it was something held over from the war, too. Sleep whenever you could, because you never knew when you might get another chance. 

“Wait,” he said. “Tomorrow’s your birthday.”

“Mmmmmm,” Steven answered, not waiting at all.

“Well what do you want to do with it?” 

“Hmmmm-hmmm,” Steven said in the slowest approximation of a laugh James had ever heard, his breath warming the knot at the top of James’ spine.

“Spend it with you,” he said. 

And James shut his eyes and smiled, turned his head into the pillowfor he smiled so broadly.

“Alright,” James said, and Steven’s head moved. “Goodnight. I love you.”

“Mm, love you too,” Steven answered, and James couldn’t think of a time when he’d felt luckier, or happier, than this.

***

The day of the party was a Sunday and it dawned misty and overcast, but turned bright and clear as any beautiful English summer morning as James lay awake in the bed gazing at the sky outside. He scarcely saw any night these days, except when Steven would take him out to the lawn to see the stars - on those nights, the stars were so familiar to James that he almost knew their names, but could not recall them. But this morning, the day had begun long before James’ eyes had opened. These days, it seemed more like the middle of the day when they went downstairs for breakfast.

Steven, he could hear, was awake in the bed beside him. He breathed differently when he slept and so it was easy for James to tell. But, even with both of them awake, he had no desire to move. They couldn’t lie here indefinitely, but James was starting to think he’d like to. Starting to think that days spent in bed with Steven might be a better way to live.

They took breakfast with everyone else, down at the lodge, because the preparations meant the house wasn’t suitable for it.

For the most part, they spent the day out of the way. They went down to the village and bought a long-overdue breakfast of fresh, flaky croissants from the baker, eating together on the move, dropping flakes of pastry as they went like Hansel and Gretel. He felt that he must have done such a thing before, that he must have brushed pastry from his weskit and stifled giggles on an occasion other than this - perhaps with his sister. And yet nothing could be better than things were now. 

“I hear carriages are set for five a.m.,” Steven told him, and James’ expression must have been one of shock, for Steven guffawed so loudly a moment later that someone crossing on the other side of the street turned to look at him. “Sorry!” he said. “Aw, I’m sorry, I’m yankin’ your chain, Pal. It’s our party, we’ll quit when we’re tired.”

“Thank God,” James said, blowing out a breath. “Pal, I don’t know about you but I’m not dancin’ ‘til five for _nobody.”_

Steven laughed.

“Yeah, you,” he said, and then his laughter faded. “You don’t have to, don’t worry. Say the word and we’ll leave everybody downstairs. No?”

“Sure,” James nodded, and Steven looked at him with such warmth then that it stole James’ breath.

If they hadn’t been in the middle of the village, James might have kissed him. Instead, he shook his head.

“What are we doing for lunch?” he asked, and Steven shrugged. “Oh, I thought we’d head down to the Golden Lion, see what their steak and kidney pie’s like.”

James nodded.

“Say, pal, they do dessert with that?” he said, and narrowly avoided looping his arm through Steven’s. 

It looked to James like Steven had had the same thought, and similarly avoided it just in time. He doubted people would think to much of it - he was missing an arm after all - but he didn’t want to risk it, not with things going so well for them.

And, much to his delight, it turned out that the pub did indeed do dessert, and a pretty nice Irish stout, too.

~

They went back to the house later from the village than they expected to, having spent almost the entire day wandering. The would still light the countryside for hours after the guests arrived to eat, of course, but there was nothing for them to do up at the house, not with it all having been taken care of. 

They went through the rose garden and down into the wood, and walked hand-in-hand instead of arm-in-arm for the remnants of the afternoon. They barely spoke at all, for there wasn’t any need and, as the early evening started to come up red and gold around them, turning the sky salmon pink, James could really see, for the first time, a future before him, instead of an empty uncertainty sparsely scattered with the dim lights of fractured memories. 

When they went back to the house, they each had had a small sherry in the morning room, and Steven read to him, until it was time to get ready, with one arm around James’ shoulders, in a voice that was low and lilting. 

It felt different. _James_ felt different, surer of himself than he’d felt in months. 

Tonight, he promised himself, or in the morning - whenever the party was done - he’d talk to Steven about which room they ought to sleep in together.

~

By the time it came time to get ready, Miss Martinelli had arrived and was off somewhere getting into her own clothes. James, too, would need to begin, for the party was at seven and Monty was already standing by the door dressed in his best butlering clothes, ready to announce each guest. 

As he crossed the hall on the way to his room, he saw how beautiful the house seemed now that there was to be a part in it. The music was made ready and there were flowers in every corner thanks to Gabe, the tables set wonderfully. 

“Listen,” James said, catching Monty on his way through to somewhere. “When I come down, you can announce me. Right?”

“Oh absolutely!” Monty answered, grinning madly. “Do go on, what name is it?” 

James smiled back at him.

“You remember the portraits,” he said. “J.G, you told me about?” 

Monty’s eyebrows went up.

“I say, what a splendid idea.”

“Well keep it to yourself,” James answered, “at least until I’m down.”

Monty nodded, and pretended to brush lint off his shoulder - there wasn’t any of course - before he stood up as straight as he could and laid it on thick.

“Absolutely, sir,” he said, with the most upper-class air James had ever heard, so that he said _abso-liute-ly, sah,_ and then gave James a conspiratorial grin. “Mum’s the word!”

The austerity of the place had been swept aside, and James felt almost giddy with it.

It did not take him too long once in his room to prepare. He swept back his hair to start with, and changed into the trousers, so that he could pin and stuff first a glove, and then the left sleeve of the blue reefer jacket. It wouldn’t do to present as J.G with only one arm, after all - J.G. very clearly had both.

Working carefully, he pinned the glove inside the pocket, and then pinned the glove to the stuffed sleeve and hoped for the best, before donning the jacket itself, and then he looked at himself in the mirror.

It had been a wonderful day, but a headache threatened even as he examined himself, but the effect was near enough perfect. With his hair done just so, he looked the very image of the portrait of J.G, and he turned sideways before the mirror to see. 

It all fitted perfectly and, if he stood correctly, you couldn’t tell that the sleeve was stuffed, that he didn’t look so handsome in the jacket all by himself. He felt triumphant in it, a strange mixture of more himself for being someone else, and smiled. 

He could scarce remember the last time he’d smiled at his reflection.

He almost did not recognize himself. 

It wasn’t long at all before there was a knock at his bedroom, and James half ducked, ready to hide out of sight.

“Don’t come in!” he said.

“Are you coming, sweetheart?” Steven said, and sounded almost as excited to see James as James was to show him.

“After you,” he said. “Go on, I want to make an entrance. You head on downstairs.”

Steven laughed, but conceded.

“Alright,” he said, and his footsteps receded. 

He gave himself time for Steven to go down, counting to one hundred as he walked back and forth in his room, testing his posture. It was easier to be confident like this, he felt it suited him more and, when he left his room, he did so with his head held high and his shoulders back, his bootsteps loud and sure on the hardwood floor. 

He could hear the voices below - in particular, Jim’s.

“Wait you’re Roosevelt too?”

“This is why we gotta coordinate,” Dum Dum answered, and James stifled a laugh.

“Alright, Monty,” he said instead as he reached top of the staircase, the hubbub of voices dying down - they must be gathered in the entrance there, probably Monty had told them to do so, and Monty, who stood at the bottom of the stair, said with great resounding voice, 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” and James stepped out into view of the partygoers below. “Mister James de Winter.”

In the following few moments, James would remember, a great many things happened at once. 

The first was that he noticed Monty announced him incorrectly. Or, more accurately, correctly.

The second was that every face, each one of which had turned toward Monty, now turned upward to face James. Monty, who turned too, looked on him as well and his eyes widened, his mouth going slack in shock.

Gabe, whose sheet-toga and papier-mâché lightning bolt clearly showed him to be Zeus, went still, his expression obscured by the woolen beard strung to his face. Jacques, his hand shoved between the buttons of his freshly ‘Napoleonically’ decorated jacket muttered something that James did not hear, and Jim next to Dum Dum, both of them dressed as Roosevelt but only one with a convincing mustache, turned immediately to look at Steven.

And the third was that, in that same instant, Steven - whose puffed shirt, carefully tailored trousers, and golden Louis 16th heels were the perfect outfit on him - went _white_ , his champagne glass slipping from his hand instantly to shatter into a thousand sticky pieces on the floor.

“Good God in heaven,” Monty said, and then Steven said.

“Ha,” and then “what,” on a breath, and then, “who the _fuck_!”

And James took a step back, head spinning. Steven looked so furious that James was almost afraid of him.

“Who the fuck put him up to that?” Steven said. And then again. “Who the _fuck_ put him _up to it?_ ” whirling on the others.

“No,” Monty said first, clear and certain. “I can’t imagine any of us-”

“Sure as hell wasn’t me,” Dum Dum answered, and James felt trapped, felt pinned as the rest of them added their own confirmations.

Steven turned to look at him, then, white as a sheet, eyes wild in his head.

“Get out of that getup before you-” Steven said, but Monty intercepted him, one arm across his chest.

“No you don’t Sir, I think you’d better sit down,” he said, and he glanced at Jim and Dum Dum as he did.

They both stepped forward - the hilarity of both of them, dressed the way they were dressed, coming forward to help Steven almost made James laugh - and he determined he’d do nothing more. Not another stair, not another step. He had his answer, didn’t he? He’d made his entrance. He took another step back, fear clawing its way up his throat, anxiety, the terrible humiliation of it. He didn’t even know what he’d done, didn’t even know the problem, but something had been so terribly wrong that Steven had dropped his champagne glass, that he’d gone so white he was almost green. 

Steven still stared at him, his face drawn and pale, his eyes ablaze.

James had to leave, to get out of here. 

“No, wait! James!” Steven shouted, but James shook his head, already moving. 

As he turned around, he saw her there. He would remember the expression on that face for as long as he lived, for there stood Miss Carter, loathsome, triumphant. She stood there in the darkness of an alcove, smiling at him, and he turned on his heel and fled.

***

Whether an hour passed or fifteen minutes, he could not tell. He struggled with the closures for long enough, cursed everything for the weight of the stuffed arm at his shoulder - he felt a fool. He felt an _idiot_ , and he’d never seen a look in Steven’s eye such as the one he’d worn at the foot of the stair.

If he’d had a man, as Howard did, if he’d had to himself a ‘Monty,’ like Steven, he might have been out of it sooner. As it was, he burned with shame and fumbled each button so that, eventually, he dragged the whole jacket over his head and let it lay where he threw it. 

He heard footsteps come up the corridor and somebody knocked on the door, and James wished for a moment he was back in Monte, or even back in L.A. with Howard. Anything to be away from this place and the dreadful, humiliating revelation of it.

“What?” he answered, and there was a pause. 

“It’s Monty, Sir, may I come in?” 

“No you may not,” James answered, and spun about in the room. 

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror - half a man, what good was he like this all marred by scarring - and turned away.

“Please, Sir, it’s not what you think it is.”

“Oh then do be a good chap and tell me,” he spat. “Given you seem to know a great deal more about him than I do!”

“Please let me in, Sir,” he said insistently, not as a butler might but as he had that morning at breakfast, and James shook his head.

“Why not?” he said. “It’s not as though it makes a difference is it? I can answer whatever I like and you don’t listen to me, sure, come on in!”

Monty did open the door a moment later, looking just as flustered as he had downstairs. 

“It’s not your fault,” Monty told him. “If anything, it’s mine - I walk past the bloody picture every day and didn’t even think of it.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” James asked, and Monty shut the door behind him. 

“I can’t exactly tell you,” Monty said, and James could have put his first through the mirror. Monty must have seen the ire in him for he held up both hands to placate him before continuing. “There was a man.”

And James waited. A man. That was the revelation?

“In the war,” Monty said. “There was a man used to dress that way, like you were dressed at the top of the stairs. Cap believes he’s the one who got him killed.”

James heard the words but, for a moment, they did register. When they did, he could scarce believe he’d heard them correctly. 

“I am dressed,” he said very slowly, “as a man the Captain killed?” 

Monty shook his head. 

“You’re dressed as a man who died,” he answered. “But Cap holds it on his conscience, he feels it’s his own fault.”

James looked at him, drew a deep breath.

“You mean someone he cared for.”

And Monty dropped his gaze.

James felt his hands ball into fists, and a very cold, very calm sensation washed over him.

“Monty,” he said, “can you tell me please, does anyone else know?” 

Monty nodded.

“They know he died,” he said. “The world knew it, actually, it made headlines, he was an important man.”

“And who knows that Steven blames himself?”

Monty did not look away from him this time.

“We all do, Peggy, the boys, our CO.”

James stared at him.

And then he laughed.

“I ought to have known,” he said.

Monty frowned.

“Not at all, how could you have?”

“I should have,” James answered, turning away from him - that her suggestion wasn’t truce but trap. “Oh, I should have known, it’s all my fault.”

“It’s not your fault at all, Sir, nobody believes it to be so.”

James turned back and stared at him.

“Not Steven?” he said. “You were right there, you heard him. You’re trying to tell me he thinks this an accident?”

“It’s been explained to him,” Monty answered. “Reasoned to him anyhow. You had no idea, and so wouldn’t know. He doesn’t think it was deliberate on your part-”

“He certainly seemed to,” James answered. 

“It was shock,” Monty told him. “It was shock, and worry for you.”

“No,” James said. “I’m not coming downstairs.”

“Oh but…” Monty said, and then cut himself off. “He wasn’t angry at you,” he said eventually. “He was angry at us. For not dissuading you.”

“Of for God’s sake, you didn’t know!”

Monty inclined his head a little. 

“Yes, he was a little less furious when he found that out.”

James shook his head.

“I’m staying here. You go and enjoy the party and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Please,” Monty said quietly to him. “He considers this the last straw-”

“Oh, shall I start packing my bags?” James asked. “Has he had enough of the invalid!?” 

Monty’s expression went to stone immediately.

“That’s not it at all,” he said, and James flung out his arm.

“Then what?” and Monty was silent. “Let me guess, you can’t say?”

“We’ve tried to reach your doctor,” Monty answered, and _that_ made James stop. What the hell did they want with his doctor if Steven considered tonight the last straw? “He doesn’t want you out at all, quite the opposite. The Captain’s had enough tip-toeing and wants to tell you everything you ask about, and we’re with him, but he won’t do it without your doctor, and it’s a Sunday night, we can’t get through. That’s why I’ve been so long in coming to speak to you.”

“My doctor,” James said. 

To be present when they told him everything? Answered all his questions?

“We’ll telephone first thing tomorrow morning - the Captain plans to stay awake through the night to call early - and then we’ll bring him here on the train. He should be here by tomorrow night if he agrees, Tuesday perhaps.”

“And I’m to sit here and wait to see if he deems me well enough to know?”

“You can be wherever you want,” Monty answered. “He’s contrite enough that he wanted to come himself but I forbade it. I thought you might not want him to follow you up. You know how he is, Sir, thinks with his heart first and not his head and forgets he’s six foot and two inches. The Presidents Roosevelt are restraining him currently, Napoleon offered but I’m not sure he’d manage by himself.”

James felt deflated all at once, ill just from how much effort it had taken to be angry.

“It was hard for us at first,” Monty said, and James regarded him carefully, near exhausted. “I’m sure you can imagine. What’s the world coming to, what would the public think, but…We’ve been through hell on earth, and that man is the man who stood in front of all of us and led us through and out the other side. If he considers you his husband then we consider you his husband, too.”

James ran his hand over his eyes, and then scrubbed his palm over his face, and then turned away. 

“Sir, if you want to stay here, I’ll bring you something up from dinner. You and I can perhaps play cards, if you please. But we should very much like for you to come downstairs. You needn’t dance or mess about, only he’d like you there. He wants to make his apologies, and we’d like you with us.”

James sighed heavily, and looked back over his shoulder at the bed, the window, the table. Steven wanted to make his apologies, to James. For being horrified when the apparition of a dead man appeared at the top of his stairs, for being angry and frightened that someone must have put James up to it. Steven must have thought he was losing his mind.

James nodded, his mind made up.

“Give me half an hour,” he said. “If I’ve not come down by then, come and get me. I want to find something to wear.”

Monty nodded. 

“Yes, Sir,” he said. “If you’d like to match, I’m sure I can find something for you.”

“No offense, Monty,” he said, “you’re a hell of a guy and I appreciate it. But I’m gonna wear whatever the hell I please.”

The corner of Monty’s mouth twitched up, and he nodded.

“Of course,” he said, and left.

So Steven was contrite was he? A mess of emotions? Just as thrown as James, except that Steven hadn’t been shouted at in front of an entire household. 

Still, James hadn’t been shocked so badly he’d dropped a champagne flute, had he?

He shook his head, couldn’t forget the look on Steven’s face - or, more accurately, in his eyes. They’d shone with it, with the intensity of his emotions, and his skin had been so pale. 

Monty was right to keep him away - James wouldn’t have wanted Steven to follow him upstairs, to corner him in his room. But the respite gave him the opportunity to think about it, to decide what he wanted.

James waited a few minutes before he set about finding a suit. It would be easy enough to wear the one he’d had on earlier, and he wouldn’t feel so out of place to be in it again. Part of him didn’t want to face the guests, or Steven. Part of him wanted to think no more about it. But if he could see himself through tonight, then tomorrow would be his reward, wouldn’t it? 

He went to his window, and saw below him Gabe, in his Zeus getup, going around to the lights in the rose garden. When he found one had blown, he took another from some pocket in his robe, and switched it out, and James wished he could be in the rose garden like any other guest would be soon.

There were chairs and tables on the lawn, set out in case people felt like sitting under the stars on such a balmy evening, and James wondered if they’d gossip about it. Perhaps Monty would say his costume hadn’t come. Or perhaps the crowd wouldn’t hear of it and they’d make their own excuses instead, chattering about it in hearsay and rumors. He’d wind up hearing it all if he stayed where he was, all of them gossiping about why he wasn’t there. 

Above him, the sky had turned from salmon to gray, and above him shone an evening star. Jupiter, he knew, rising, while Saturn and Mars, on the Western side, followed the sun down into to the sea.

He went to the jacket on the floor, and pulled from the sleeve and glove the newspapers which he had used to stuff it. He set the jacket on his bed and neatened it before he put it back on its hanger. After this, he found the little portable iron he’d used on Howard’s shirts when they’d traveled. It was right at the back of the wardrobe, for it had been so long since James used it, and he pressed a shirt and steamed a wrinkle from his jacket. 

Before he dressed, he went to the bathroom, and scrubbed the Brylcreem from his hair over the sink, scrubbing the moisture from it with a towel when he was done. 

Then he dressed, in an open shirt, and opened the door.

He went to the end of the corridor and past the door to the passage to the West wing, barely able to hear anything at all. 

It wasn’t until he was near to the top of the stairs that he could hear conversation coming from the dining room. There was no-one by the staircase, or in the corridor. From where James stood, he could see the edge of the portrait of Lilith and J.G., the cause of his embarrassment. Soon the people would move from the dining room to the hall, and then there would be people everywhere, crossing to and fro - it wouldn’t be quiet like it was now. 

Across from him, a board creaked and, when he looked, there was nobody there but the great long length of the other corridor which would lead to the West wing. There was nobody there though this door stood open, but a draught blew past him. Someone must have left open a window in a passage or a bedroom. The voices continued in the dining room and there was no further creak of the floorboards. 

He walked to the doorway and peered beyond it, somehow unwilling to cross the threshold, and he could feel the wind through it like a tunnel. He could not find a switch, though he felt for one, and did not go to find which window had been left open, for the grey light from outside cast odd shadows and a curtain blew softly that startled him when he had not expected it.

For a moment, a long moment, he stood listening to the sea as it roared and crashed all that distance away. Then he shut the door, and quickly turned, and went down the stairs.


	10. The Fifth of July

Steven wasn’t immediately there when he went into the main hall, though James had expected him to be a beacon of blue and white in amongst the costumes. Perhaps, he reasoned, one of the boys was keeping Steven occupied until the could be sure each of them wanted to speak to the other. Indeed, as James looked, he could see Jim’s Roosevelt but not Dum Dum’s. 

“There you are,” someone said, and he turned to find Queen Victoria, just about recognizable as Miss Martinelli, sitting by a plate of food.

“This is for you,” she said. “ ‘Cause you need some meat on them bones.”

And James laughed, startled into it. He thought he could remember his mother saying the same.

“Lucky for you I’m a gal of honor,” she said with a wry smile. “I coulda eaten at least another two plates, but maybe don’t spread that one around.”

“I would never,” he said, doing his best to smile. “I’m a gentleman.”

“Ahuh,” she said, “sure thing, Pal, and I’m the Queen of England,” and winked.

Monty stuck by him until people started to move out onto the lawn, and James was endlessly glad that the only people he knew were the five men who’d met him on the stair when he’d first arrived, and Miss Martinelli. He heard one of the guests he didn’t know ask her where Peggy was.

“What am I, her keeper?” Miss Martinelli answered, and then she waved a hand. “Nah, I’m just joshin’ with ya, she’s way too busy workin’ to party.”

Was that, James thought, what Miss Carter was doing. 

Working.

Keeping out of the fucking way, more like.

Monty appeared by his elbow. 

“Steve’s just collecting himself in the kitchen,” he said, and James watched him for a moment. “Although I can occupy you if you’d like to look busy once he comes back.”

James shook his head and sighed softly.

“He’s had enough of a shock, I imagine,” he said, and set about trying to eat a little.

He ate because he knew that he ought to, because he knew he’d feel worse if he didn’t, but Steven still did not reappear. There was music playing, and a couple of people tried to dance to it, but it didn’t seem like the kind of party for guests to Gavotte about the place or Lindy to and fro, and it wasn’t long before they sways in groups instead, more interested in conversation. James could not recall having had any friends, not real ones, but the boys kept close to him for the most part, and it was endurable as long as he company.

When the guests began to move outside, James and Monty followed, walking side by side out to the lawn. 

“We still callin’ the doctor tomorrow?” James asked, and the smell of cigar smoke wafted over, preceding Dum Dum by quite a way.

“Yes,” Monty said. 

“Good,” James answered just as simply, looking up at Jupiter, whose path led it ever onward towards the west. 

“What’re you fellas up to?” Dum Dum asked, and Monty waved a hand at the lawn.

“Just walking,” he said, and James gave him a nod to show that he was welcome, and they walked slowly and quietly over the grass while voices tittered around them. 

Occasionally someone would call out to one of them, ask how they’d been, but it wasn’t until a voice struck James as familiar that he found himself surprised. 

“Helluva party you got goin’ here, friend!” said Howard Stark, of all people, and James turned to stare at him, well aware how shocked he must look. “Surprise!”

James just continued to stare, for far too long to be polite, and Howard just waited for him.

“Mr Stark,” he said eventually. 

“Aw, Howie, come on,” Howard Stark answered. “You know me well enough by now. You’ve folded my underwear, didn’t you? How’s life treatin’ ya?”

And James looked at him for a long few moments. 

There were two answers to that question - one honest, and one polite, and James had no idea whatsoever which one he should give. But then Howard didn’t make him choose.

“I hear from the boys you’re getting your doc up this week?” 

James blinked rapidly at him, and then looked at Monty and Dum Dum.

“I,” he said. “Yes? That seems to be the plan.”

“Well then that ticket’s on me, pal,” Howard Stark said, leaning closer, “but you can get me a drink as a thank you?”

James stared at him.

“Why?” he said.

“I might call everybody ‘friend’ but I sure don’t _mean_ it all the time. Come on, you boys can show me where they keep the good stuff.”

And James took one last look out at the sparkling sea, and turned to go with Howard. 

~

They were coming back across to Gabe and Jaqcues and Jim, who were sitting at one of the many little tables about the place. Steven was there with them, too.

There’d be holes, James thought, in the grass. The lawn. There’d be great big pockmarks in it come morning if everyone set their chairs out. They should have left the chairs on the terrace. 

“Oh here he is,” Howard said quietly, jovially of course, but not loudly enough for the people at the table to hear. 

Steven, however, turned his head immediately, and jerked forward in his seat, and Gabe’s arm stopped him.

“Hold on, Steve,” he said, and Steven shut his mouth and stared in James’ direction instead of getting up to walk to him. 

Steven was very pale, very drawn, and looked ill. He truly did look like he’d seen a ghost, and James went to sit beside him, because that was where he ought to be. Steven didn’t say anything to him, but looked up at him with wide-blue eyes as he took his seat, followed with his gaze. 

“Been long enough since I saw you idiots,” Howard was saying, but Steven looked any number of different things, none of them happy.

James just shook his head a little, closed his eyes for a moment, and then took Steven’s hand in his own. It shook, James could feel the tremor. Steven nodded tightly, seemed to sink in on himself, and tightened his fingers around James’. And so James just sat where he was and looked at the stars, while Steven sat stiff and silent beside him. 

The sea rushed and roared away over the cliffs, and James felt he could sit here and watch the stars spin forever.

Saturn sat on the horizon, glittering in the turbulent air above the sea, and Mars was setting too. Above them, the giant swathe of the milky way stretched across the sky. He was still watching it half an hour or so later as the bright twinkling point of Saturn finally winked out behind the horizon, still ruddy with a sun that barely set before it would rise again.

***

The party did indeed wind up somewhere around five that morning, and James had thought that he might be first to bed, but he was still awake and sober when the night, which had barely made it to full darkness, faded first to turquoise and then came to gold and pink in anticipation of the glorious burning day at four.

With it, the fog began to obscure the distant sea, the trees in the woods. The lights hung over the terrace and through the rose garden turned to beacons seemingly suspended in the air. It gave the whole world an unreal quality, as though he weren’t quite awake. 

The only people still on the lawn were himself, and Steven, and Howard, though he knew the boys weren’t far - they had moved under the pretense of finding more to eat and drink. But he knew they were offering them privacy. The huge shadow of the chestnut towered over them, the grass beneath their feet wet with de w, they sat in the chairs on the lawn, having said nothing, as they’d said nothing for hours, for almost the whole night through.

Carriages did indeed start to transport their guests away, and James paid them no mind until Howard stood, and then James stood with him, Steven close behind. 

“You’re not staying for breakfast?” James asked. “I hear there’s eggs and bacon.”

“Not for me, pal! I’ve gotta get on the road, there’s a thing this week in Geneva they want brains for. Mine’s one of ‘em.”

“Jar convention, is it?” James asked, and Howard laughed.

James had never felt as much like a host in this house as he did speaking to Howard, and he wasn’t sure what it meant, where it had come from. Perhaps it was having seen a side of Steven he hadn’t expected, or learning where it came from. Perhaps it was that Steven’s easy friendliness was absent, and left a vacuum James was able to fill. 

Perhaps, he thought, it came from being so viciously humiliated by Miss Carter - he felt nothing toward her now, at least for the time being, except pity, perhaps. Distaste. He would speak to Steven about it, of course, and he would put his foot down about it, too. 

But whatever the reason, Steven said goodbye to Howard softly, with a heartfelt clasp of his hand and a very knowing look that passed between them, and Howard leaned forward and embraced James as though they were old friends and James, surprised, returned it without thinking.

“Stay safe, kid,” Howard said, though he knew for a fact Howard wasn’t that much older than they were themselves, and he got into a car with a tip of his hat.

Considering he’d been drinking all night, it was certainly surprising he seemed so alert.

“Hey, wait,” James said, stepping off the lawn and onto the gravel to put his hand against the window, leaning down to speak to him. “Why did you really come?” 

“I really came ‘cause Steve asked me to,” he said, and looked at James over his sunglasses. “Stay in touch.”

James nodded, and stepped back, and Howard stuck the wrong hand out of the window to give an incredibly sloppy salute as the car pulled away.

Then he looked at Steven.

Steven had a little more color in him by now, but he still looked at James as though he might disappear.

“Come on,” James told him. “We’ll go to breakfast. And then we’ll go to bed.”

Steven nodded, rubbing his hand over his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I am so-” and James shook his head, reached out to him. 

“Don’t worry about that,” he said softly. “Come on.”

***

Steven slept for a long time after he ate. James was up again by around eleven, but Steven only stirred as he left.

“It’s alright,” he said, “I’ll be right downstairs.”

And he went back to his room to dress. 

He went down into the house to find everything mostly tidied away, and stared, aghast, as Monty gave him a wave. 

“Good morning,” he said. “Again? It’s still morning isn’t it?”

“Sure is,” James answered, although it seemed very bright even for an English summer. 

He went to the morning room, and sat at his typewriter for a time, writing out some memories that had come back to him, trying to describe a scene or two he’d noticed in Monte. He didn’t get far with each, but soon he’d covered a page, and he tucked it into the drawer in the writing desk, atop all the others he’d completed. At around one, Alpine hopped down from the window and left, and James was just considering waking Steven when the house phone rang beside him. He glanced at the paper menu. Everything seemed fine.

He lifted the phone from its cradle.

“Hello?” he said.

 _“It’s Monty, Sir,”_ Monty’s voice said. _“Your Doctor’s had a death in the family and the funeral’s on Thursday morning, but he’s happy to travel up on Thursday afternoon. He should be here by the morning on Friday.”_

James nodded, shut his eyes and tried to breathe steadily.

“Thank you,” he said. “Right.”

_“Of course, Sir. Is there anything else I can do for you?”_

And James looked at the typewriter before him, at the desk on which it sat and the room he was sitting in - the gilded furniture and the huge, wide mirror, and the carefully-placed ornaments and the couch, the fireplace.

“I don’t know, Monty,” he said, before he even thought not to say it. “Everything’s so strange.”

There was a short pause on the line before Monty answered him and, when Monty spoke again, he could hear the honesty in it.

 _“How d’you mean?”_ he asked, but he didn’t sound confused. 

He sounded like a friend, like a confidante. 

“I was so sure of myself in Monaco,” James said. “Even though I thought I was being naïve, I knew I loved him.”

 _“He loves you too, Sir,”_ Monty answered. _“I hope you don’t doubt it.”_

James narrowed his eyes a little, and then looked up at the wide, blue sky outside. She had known, hadn’t she, Rebecca? She had given him the book of poetry and loved him still, hadn’t she? He had loved her too. And then here was James, with no memory and half a body, without experience or purpose, not able to provide for a single one of Steven’s wants. But Steven said he loved him. But against a woman like Rebecca…

“There’s something else, there’s something I’m missing. A piece I haven’t fit into its place yet. I’m starting to wonder whether I ever will.”

 _“Sir-”_ Monty said, soft, incredulous, but James cut him off.

“No,” James said, “no, I don’t think there’s anything else you can do for me. I’m just being maudlin, don’t let me upset you. I’ll see you for lunch, alright?”

And James put the telephone down and stood up from the desk. 

He’d talk to Steven once he came downstairs. 

The telephone rang again, and James had half a mind not to answer. He’d said what he wanted to, given voice to the thing that had worried him most. Still, it was Monty he was speaking to, and he’d never deter Monty that way.

He lifted the phone from the hook again.

“Honestly, Monty,” he said, but it was not Monty’s voice on the telephone.

 _“Mr de Winter?”_ it said, and James’ voice went cold. 

It had been almost four months, but he knew the voice instantly.

“Who’s this?” he said.

 _“Who’s this?”_ the voice replied, though the line was bad and the voice unsteady.

“I haven’t time for you,” he answered. “I told you to stop calling this number.”

And he slammed down the receiver a second time, so hard that the whole set rang for a good few seconds after. 

When it faded, the silence seemed to ring even more loudly than the bell, and James pushed the heel of his hand against his eyes. 

“Damn,” he muttered, and then stared, blinking, at the ceiling while he waited for the spots in his eyes to fade. 

Captain barked from somewhere, and James lifted his head to listen for it. Alpine was in the window but had turned to stare in his direction, eyes wide, ears pricked. When he looked, he saw nothing, and looked back again. Still Alpine stared.

Captain barked again, and James frowned, and went out after him. 

He was, it seemed, outside. The doors in the library had been left open so as to lead onto the terrace, and there he stood, out in the middle of the grass on the West side of the house, staring upward at the house and barking.

“Captain!” James shouted at him, and Captain’s ears seemed to show that he’d heard, but he stayed where he was and barked again. _“Was is los?_ Huh? What’re you barkin’ at, _Ruhe!”_

Captain did indeed quiet the hell down, but he growled instead, lips pulling back to bare his teeth, and he made soft whuffling noises as James came outside toward him and got close.

“Come on, kid, what the hell’s the matter, huh?” and he reached out for Captain’s collar and looked up to see what the fuss was all about. 

The shutter had been pulled aside from the window of the master bedroom in the West wing, and someone was standing there, looking down. The figure was shadowy and indistinct and, for one moment of shock and fear, James didn’t recognize it. Then it moved, stepped back, and he knew. 

It was Miss Carter. 

She had been standing in the master bedroom where Steven and Rebecca had once stood, she had seen him come out to find Captain and, for all he knew, she had spent the whole night there watching. He could picture her as she’d been last night, and she would know. She would know that Steven was ill, she would know James spent the party barely doing anything at all, and she might even have heard his conversation with Monty, if she’d been on the line, if it had rung in her room.

As though possessed, suddenly he’d had enough. He let go of Captain’s collar and grit his teeth.

_“Geh spiel.”_

And off Captain went, to find a stick, or a ball, or run across the lawns - James didn’t know what and didn’t much care. He had a different goal in mind now. 

He went in through the library and along the corridor, through the hall, past the portraits. He went up the great stairs and turned when he reached the top to go along the dark, silent corridor to the master bedroom. And then, without even pausing, he went inside.

She was still standing there, by the window.

“Carter,” he said, and the anger he could feel was like a lance behind his eye. 

“What is it?” she said, and she sounded cold and distant, tired.

He hadn’t expected it - he’d thought she would be smiling, as she had the night before. Cruel, evil, knowing and deliberate, and he found none of those things. She looked drawn, old somehow. 

“Do you disapprove of the menu for today?” she asked, and he took a step into the room.

“I didn’t come to talk about the menu,” he said. “And you know it.”

She did not answer.

“You meant for it to happen,” he said. “You told me how to dress and you did so on purpose, I know it. Are you happy?”

“Why did you come?” she said. “Why did you come here? Why did you do what you did to me?”

“To you?” James answered. “What the hell are you talking about? You did all of this knowing it would hurt him, didn’t you? You had me play your own joke on him.”

“You’re the one who came here,” she said. “This place would have been just fine without you.”

“You speak as though you own the place,” James spat. “What concern is it of yours who the master brings back?”

She looked furious then. 

“You could never be enough for him,” she said. “You’ll never know him. The both of you have hurt me so, and this is your reward for it.”

James stared at her, aghast. He didn’t know what to say to her, the whole situation was insanity. 

“Are you _crazy?”_ he said to her.

And she laughed, a hollow, bitter sound.

“He can’t love you, you stupid, unnatural little child. Old love still lives in the walls-”

“Stop it, how dare you?” James answered, walking toward her. “How dare you speak like that to me! You speak as though we haven’t the right to be happy!”

“He isn’t happy! Not with you, he’s in hell!” she answered. “He’s in hell every minute of every day and has been ever since-”

“And so you push him!” James answered. “Hasn’t he suffered enough?”

“What do I care about Mr de Winter’s suffering,” she answered, “when he never cared a _jot_ for mine!?”

James shook his head. He wasn’t afraid of her any longer, she couldn’t pin him with that gaze. 

“And what of mine?” he said. “Am I nothing, don’t I have feelings too?”

“You sat at the desk and you used the papers, you had no right to come here, you had no right to make changes-”

“What changes?” James answered her. “What changes, Carter? I approved every menu I stayed out of your the way for the party, I ate dinner in the dining room and read books in the library - for _God’s sake_ , I’d’ve been _friends_ with you if you’d let me! I tried!”

“Mr de Winter deserves to suffer,” she said, circling around him, and he kept his distance, didn’t want her near him. “He deserves it and so do you.”

And James stood there, having no idea what to say.

“You hate us both so much?” he said. 

“I wonder what Mr de Winter thought,” she said, “to see you sitting at the table, in his library. I wonder if he understood his mistakes then. You’re second, you’ll always be second. “

“You’d better stop this,” he told her. “You’d better stop all of this-”

“ ‘You’d better stop, you’d better stop,’ or you’ll run to him, will you? You’ll run to him? ‘She’s been mean to me, she wants me unhappy’ you’ll run to him like you did when Mr Thompson was here.”

“I didn’t tell him about that,” James said, startled into it - not that it mattered, he realized a moment later, not that it was anything to do with her if he did. 

“You’re a liar,” she answered. “No-one else knew, I know you told him, and now I don’t care at all. Let him suffer. Let both of you suffer.”

Behind him there was the sound of creaking wood and shivering glass and the air was cold on the back of his neck.

“How can you speak like this, you _hateful_ woman?”

She came right up to him then, something sharp and malicious in her eyes, and the air was colder still on the back of his neck, so cold he thought he might breathe clouds in it - where had the afternoon disappeared?

“He’ll never love you,” she said. “You’ll never be master, not after all who’ve come before you, not after everything he’s done. Mister de Winter indeed, you’ll never be. It’s you that’s the shadow, you’re the ghost, why don’t you leave it to us? Why don’t you go?”

“What?” James asked, and the cry of a gull had him whirling about.

He was at the window - somehow she had led him there. 

“None of us want you. He doesn’t want you, he doesn’t love you. He never did and he never will.”

James found himself looking at the stone terrace below, the distance of it. 

And if it was true, if Steven couldn’t love him, if Steven were as conflicted-

“Why don’t you go?” she said, and his ears rang, his head spun. “Why don’t you go?” and the room seemed to sway about him. “Why don’t you try it? Why don’t you go?”

For a long moment the terrace seemed miles away, the window seemed large, and the world seemed to shift below his feet like a boat on the sea.

It wasn’t far to fall, but it wold kill him if he went head-first. His fingers were clammy on the window sill, his lungs struggling for air-

Captain barking below him pulled the world back into place like elastic, and then there were footsteps below him on the terrace, Gabe and Dum Dum. He heard Steven’s voice too - he came around the corner of the house and up onto the terrace after the others.

“Where is he?” he said. “I’m not going without telling him.”

James stared down at him as Steven he turned his head and looked at her, incredulous. She stepped back, the spell between them broken.

 _“What?”_ he said, but she did not repent, there was no contrition in her eyes.

“You might as well,” she said. 

And then she crossed silently to the open door and looked back at him. 

“You’ll never be Mr de Winter.”

And then she went out into the corridor, and moved away.

James sagged against the windowsill as soon as she was gone, his heart hammering against his ribs. 

What the hell was wrong with the woman? 

“James!” he could hear Steven calling, sounding urgent, almost panicked.

James pushed himself away from the sill and went to him.

~

When he came out onto the landing above the staircase, he was still unsteady, and put his hand on the rail only to see that there was movement below.

Steven was standing there in his day clothes, wearing a jacket, and he turned to look at James as soon as Monty did.

“James,” he said on a breath, “James-”

James went to him, without even thinking about it.

And then the man he was, the man who loved James and talked in circles and shouted and went for walks in the rose garden, vanished.

“I have to go,” Steven answered, his face a mask. 

James could see no emotion in it - no distaste, no confusion, no anger, no happiness, no anticipation.

“What? Why? _Now?”_ he said, frowning. 

Monty came up to the two of them, his steps hurried as they echoed, a coat of Steven’s in hand.

“I’m needed down in London,” Steven answered, taking the coat from him to pull it on over his suit. 

There was the sound of movement behind him and, when James turned to look, Gabe was there with a suitcase, coming down the stairs. 

“You’re _leaving?”_ James said. “But where in London? Why are you leaving?”

“Do you want anyone else with you, Sir?” Monty asked, and he too seemed unusually somber as Gabe passed with the case. 

It was such a large case for two days, it would barely fit in the trunk.What was going on?

“No,” Steven answered Monty, and then he spoke to James. “I can’t tell you why. I’ll be back in two days, if all goes well.”

“Steve!” Monty said, but Steven shook his head.

James blinked at him. Was this to be his life, a cycle of arguments and apologies until one of them could no longer stand it? Secret after secret unless one of them broke? It was as though this were a different man, a mask, the figurehead he’d always said he was. Perhaps this was the kind of leadership Steven’s men had needed during the war.

“The boys’ll take care of you,” he answered eventually. 

“If we’re goin’,” said a dark-haired man that James did not know, American, stuck his head and shoulders in the front door, and Steven nodded without looking at him, nodded without taking his eyes off James.

“We are,” Steven answered and then, he reached out and took hold of James, at waist and elbow as always, and kissed him.

But Steven had not kissed him like that before. Each kiss had been careful, a gift, made cautious and gentle. This was searing and desperate and left James stunned and breathless.

“Remember that I love you,” Steven told him, and James’ stomach dropped, his mouth fell open. “I’ll see you in two days.”

James frowned, speechless, after him, helpless to stop him as he left. He hurried after them, ran out onto the step, and found that Steven was getting into the car, that the dark-haired man was driving and the car was moving before Steven closed the door. 

James said nothing as the car pulled away, nothing as it turned the corner and felt, as it did, that it was disappearing from the world he lived in, that he might never see it again, or the people therein.

He felt sick with it, with worry and fear and something else, like anticipation. Something was wrong, but he didn’t know what. 

“What the hell is going on?” he said, but nobody answered him. 

The hell with this, he was the second Mr de Winter, wasn’t he? Steven was his husband, near enough, didn’t he have a right to know.

“I said what the hell is going on?” he asked, turning, and he found that Jim and Dum Dum and Gabe and Monty and Jacques were all standing there. Dum Dum was closest, standing with his arms folded over his chest and his face the picture of consternation. 

He looked at James and his expression didn’t change. 

“I don’t know, Sir,” he said, shaking his head as he unfolded his arms. “He didn’t say.”

Monty walked behind him, went into the house, and James saw him leave, saw him sneak away. Monty hadn’t looked the same as the others, wasn’t muttering to Gabe like Jim was, wasn’t shaking his head like Jacques. 

Monty knew something, James was certain, and he followed him inside.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust and, when they did, he saw that Monty was headed for the kitchens, it looked like.

“Hey!” he shouted after him. “Falsworth!” 

He shouldn’t have shouted, it made his headache flare up again, but he shook his head and followed close enough to see that Monty paused - so he’d definitely heard - and looked back, before he set off again.

“Hey!” James shouted again, but Monty disappeared around a corner. 

So James followed him - down the passage, down the stairs, into the kitchen and-

“I can’t tell you what’s going on because I don’t know,” Monty said brazenly.

He was standing by the stove with his feet set and his arms down - not as though he were ready to fight but the exact opposite, as though he was trying to show how little he wanted a confrontation.

“There’s somethin’ you ain’t tellin’ me,” James said, “all’a you,” and Monty nodded.

“Yes,” he said. “But it’s because I can’t.”

“Bull _shit_ you can’t,” James answered, but Monty didn’t move.

“Sir, I can’t tell you a damn thing because he told me not to and he outranks me.”

“The war’s over!” James shouted. “Jesus Christ almighty, you’re in the know and I get to stay here, sitting pretty until he gets back so we can, what pretend it never happened?” He shook his head, pointing at the ground in front of him. “Somebody better tell me what the hell is going on or I’m gonna start makin’ a fuss about it, Monty, a real fuckin’ ruckus.”

And Monty clenched his jaw, glanced over James’ shoulder. Then he flicked his gaze back and searched James’ face before he looked over James’ shoulder again.

He wet his lips.

“You can’t tell a soul,” Monty said, his voice low and urgent.

James felt his blood heat.

“You’re giving me orders?” James asked, and Monty shook his head. 

“I’m asking you as a man of honor,” he answered. “I only know one thing about it and I’m supposed to be sworn to secrecy.”

James clenched his jaw, too and took a deep breath, forced it out through his nose.

“Nobody else,” he said. “What do you know?”

“All I’ve been told is there’s nobody else can do the job,” Monty said. “And I know it’s a small window. He won’t get another chance.”

“What the hell is he doing that he needs to rush off like this with no warning?” James asked, going cold without knowing why. “Where the hell does he need to go?” 

Monty shook his head. 

“I haven’t the foggiest,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

James shut his eyes.

“You’re sorry,” he said. “You’re _sorry._ Holy Mary and all the saints, I should’a stuck with Howard.” He put a hand out to the table feeling suddenly very tired, and sank into the nearest chair. “God in heaven, I should have stayed with Howard. I should never have come here, to Midwood, with Steven.”

“Don’t say that, Sir,” Monty murmured, and James didn’t want for Monty to be the one to comfort him, but who else was there now Steven wasn’t here? 

“Monty, just tell me something. Don’t ask me why I’m askin’ ‘cause I don’t know but I need you to tell me. Did he tell you he’d be coming back?”

Monty sat down next to him and leaned one elbow on the tabletop.

“I asked, Sir. I asked if he meant it when he said two days.”

James looked at him, a lump forming in his throat, suddenly terrified of the answer. 

“And?” he rasped, and Monty shook his head, leaning closer until he could hold his hand near to James’ forearm, though he didn’t touch.

“He told me not even hell itself would keep him from you,” he answered.

And James nodded slowly, his head heavy, his eyes dry and itching, and did his best to believe that hell itself wouldn’t try.

Upstairs, on the table in his room, wrapped in colorful paper and tied with a ribbon, lay the gift for Steven, forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jupiter, Saturn, and Mars were all visible from England on the fourth of July 1948.


	11. Two Days

The first day, James didn’t know what to do with himself. He had thought he could find something - perhaps read a book or work at his typewriter, or else perhaps look through Steven’s paintings. 

“Would you like me to take you around, sir?” Monty asked, folding his paper, but he wasn’t sure there was anywhere he wanted to go.

“I’ve seen the forest and the kitchens and the West wing, I’m not sure whether I need worry about anything else,” he said, and Monty stared at him - so did Jacques from where he was sitting at a smaller table playing solitaire.

James met their stares. He had no idea what such a look meant from either of them but he also knew he wasn’t permitted to know. 

“And you know all the gardens, of course,” Monty told him.

“Mmm,” James answered. 

“Have you been down to the beach?” Gabe asked, and James shook his head.

“No,” he said. “I’ve been to the cliff.”

This, equally as bafflingly, did not seem to elicit any reaction at all. 

“D’you _wanna_ go to the beach?” Dum Dum asked. “You could go for a swim?”

“Probably just a walk,” James answered, and then raised on eyebrow. “I don’t swim very well these days.”

Dum Dum gave him a small, pinched smile of regret - it was hard to make a joke, or hear one, when the minutes were crawling by and the sun seemed to have hung in place for hours. 

“We can go if you like,” Gabe said. “Or we can find something else to do.”

“Or we can shut up,” Jim said, “your choice, sir.”

And James took a long, slow breath and closed his eyes. Miss Carter had been abhorrent to him, but the others had been nothing but kind and patient. 

He had tried to read in the library, but he’d had to move, because he couldn’t stand to be in the library without Steven, because he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stand being there when he returned. He had tried being in Steven’s room without him, and it had only felt twice as large instead of offering comfort.

“Does anybody got a pack’a cards?” he said, aware of how desperate he sounded as he did, and Jacques barely even moved.

 _“Je pensais que tu ne demanderais jamais,”_ he said, and pulled a pack from his shirt pocket. 

“I’ll deal,” Gabe said, and James nodded.

“What are we playing?” he said. 

“Oh goodness. Poker,” Monty answered. “And I’m not playing any of you for cash, we’ll play for matches. Dum Dum be a dear and get the pot would you?”

“Of course, darling,” Dum Dum answered, in about as saccharine a way as humanly possible, batting his eyelashes, and stood up to fetch them.

Poker, at least, James could get behind.

***

They did walk down to the beach, later in the afternoon. James did a great deal better at poker this time than he had the last, and that was what unnerved him about it in the end. After he’d won four hands in a row, Monty narrowed his eyes and Jim came right out and said it.

“You countin’ cards too, Sir?” except the way that he said ‘Sir’ was funny, and wavered over the vowel, and Jacques gave him a funny look for it, and James wasn’t in the mood to sit through another of the awkward silences.

He thought it endearing, in a ridiculous way, that they all wanted to accompany him. One of them could have gone with him, but he supposed that Monty knew how odd his mood had been as of late, and once one of them was invested, the others seemed to follow naturally anyway.

And so they all went with him except for Monty, who stayed at the house in case of telephone calls. They took Captain with them, and left Alpine in the sun on the front doorstep, and wandered through the the wood, to go down to the path that would take them to the place where the cliffside sank and sank until it met the beach.

It was, at least, a longish walk, and they took turns entertaining Captain on the way. He seemed perfectly happy to accept a throw from anyone, and bounded off into the trees or off down the path, and James watched him go and come back, watched Monty and Jim and Gabe and Jacques all fuss at him and cheer him on as he went, and listened to them talk amongst themselves about the little shops in the village, or how nice it was to go a little further and on into the town. 

James had not been to the town, but he could join the conversation a little when it came to the village, for he and Steven had run small errands there, and explained which of the two bakeries was their favorite.

“Where’d Alpine come from?” he said, as they came out of the trees and onto the beginning of the coastal path. 

The dry dusty ground beneath their feet became almost instantly lighter, less compact, and the kind of small stones which had been embedded in the path before began to litter the way in front of them, such that James began to feel them through the sole of his shoe. The roar and crash of the sea was far more audible to him, and he could hear it now as an endless cycle of sound, rather than the ebb and flow of noise that he could make out from the lawn.

“Another rescue,” Gabe answered.

“From the war?” James said, and Gabe shook his head.

“Nah, from the grounds,” he answered. “We were worried Cap was gonna eat him to start with.”

James looked at him, and then laughed.

“You mean the dog,” he said, and Dum Dum guffawed. 

“I mean you know that man’ll eat anything put in front of him,” and James laughed a little.

“So he was here at the house then?” he prompted.

“Yeah, Monty can give you a better account of it,” Dum Dum answered, “given he was the one out walking Captain with, uh the, it was a patient, right?”

“Yeah, one of the guys in recovery,” Jim said. “Out for a walk with the dog, the dog goes for this little white puffball and everyone just about has a heart attack when they realize it’s a kitten.”

“Next thing you know, he’s gettin’ between us and it,” Gabe continues. “Had to be talked down.”

“Oh speak of _‘der hund,’_ ” Dum Dum said. “Who’s a good boy! Huh?!”

Captain came bounding over to him, stick in mouth, and leaned right up against him for a rub, so they all paused for a moment to pay him some attention.

“You know he speaks German, Tim,” Gabe said, and Dum Dum just roughed his hands through Captain’s coat a little harder.

“Yeah look at him,” he said. “Doesn’t understand a word I’m saying, clearly. Do you? Huh? Who’s a good boy?”

Captain made a few whuffling sounds at him and grinned - there wasn’t any other word for it, mouth open wide with all those teeth, tongue lolling out of his head - but then Gabe got a hold of the stick and threw it forward again, and off Captain went.

“So we brought him inside, let the guy name him.”

James nodded.

The beach was long and half shale, and beautiful in the summer sun. They talked about walking the whole length of the cove and then coming back, but James changed his mind about halfway across.

“You fellas go if you want,” he said, “but I gotta sit.”

“Nah, we’ll sit,” Jim said, just as Dum Dum muttered,

“Oh thank God,” and so they sat on the half-shale and watched the waves roll in.

The sun sparkled on the sea like it had in Monte, and James wondered where Steven was, what flight he’d had to catch. Where, if he was flying, he’d had to fly to. Two days would get him to mainland Europe and back, or up to Scotland perhaps. If he had to, James supposed, he could even get to the US and back in that time, although he couldn’t imagine there’d be much time to complete any objective once he was there. 

Perhaps that was why Steven had asked Howard to the party, for his private plane. Or, even, the other way around - perhaps Howard had only accepted the invitation with the promise of a favor to call in. 

James would be glad for Friday, when he would have as much information as he he could have, all being well, and could make an informed decision about it all himself.

***

When they got back to the house, it was getting on for evening though the sun was still up and bright, and Monty came outside to them as they came back up the path.

“I don’t much feel like cooking,” he said. “Who’s up for a trip into town?”

And James thought he might as well. There wouldn’t be anything else to do otherwise. 

~

Monty brought the car around, and James got in next to him, and they drove through the village and on to the town. The buildings were old but the storefronts were newish, and people crossed to and fro with a nod to them in one or two cases, and they drove almost out the other side of the place before Monty pulled the car over to the side of the street. 

“Alright,” he said, “my order’s fairly simple but you’re welcome to come in if you like,” and James ducked his head and looked up at the sign over the storefront. 

‘Fish & Chips’ in huge, blue letters, with a smiling fish beside it and a pile of chips on the other. 

The floor was tiled, and the name repeated on the large plate-glass window that served as the facade.

“Yeah,” James said, nodding to himself. “Okay.”

He could smell the place as soon as Monty opened the car door for him, fish and potato with the heavy, cloying scent of oil and batter.

He had a flash of color, and a lance of pain behind his eye that was gone before he even responded to it, and knew suddenly that it was summer in Coney Island, with funnel cake giving him sticky fingers. It actually made him smile, despite everything, and he followed Monty into the place.

~

They ate on the lawn, guarding their newspaper-wrapped treasures from Alpine and Captain. Alpine, who must have by now decided whose stoicism could be swayed, sat by James’ ankles, and shuffled forward every minute or so.

“Yeah, yeah, you got a nerve on you but I’ll save you some, huh? Stop giving me the eyes.”

Captain, at least, understood the command to sit still. 

It was a feast that James hadn’t realized would be so comforting - crisp batter and tender fish, fries that crunched on the outside and were fluffy within. It was good, hearty food for a summer’s evening, and he was glad they’d decided to eat it outside. Though he left it too long, and it started to turn greasy under his fingers, they ate with their hands, and might as well have been children in a park instead of living in a manor house.

***

He tried to write once more at the typewriter that night, but the words would not come.

He sat there until almost midnight, hoping inspiration would strike, but it did not. His incessant picking at the keys had produced so little, despite the time he’d worked on it, and he stared at the page half-written. A half-formed recollection twisted to make it sound better than it had been, and he’d failed at it anyway.

_‘I could never forget the sunlight on the water, as we stood there atop the cliff. He had driven me to the highest point in Monte Carlo that he could find, and told me about every place he could think of, and we were happy.’_

It seemed so distant now.

He pulled the piece of paper from it, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it away.

~

He had planned to sleep in Steven’s bed, in the hopes that the familiarity of it might soothe him, but he knew the moment he entered that it wouldn’t be the case. The room was huge without Steven there, and seemed emptier just because it usually wasn’t.

Besides which, James felt that his nightmares were easier with Steven next to him and, without him alongside, if he dreamed something awful in this room too it might sour the whole thing, might make him just as afraid of this room as he was of the other. He took Steven’s pillows with him instead, because they still smelled of him.

He felt half a fool for being afraid of his room - it was just as innocuous, though just as empty, the bed where it had always stood, the desk the chairs, the table.

He changed into his pajamas, left the nightstand light on, and settled down to sleep. It took him longer than usual, without the heat of Steven’s body to warm him, but the room was not cold, and he fell asleep soon enough.

***

When he came awake, he did not know what had woken him.

With the summer, and the nights so short, the room was already aglow with the dim blue of the waking world, and James frowned at the window. 

For one, horrible moment, a chill ran the length of his spine, for he saw someone there, hunched over and waiting by the table at the alcove. Heart racing, he wrenched back the gauzy curtain and saw as his eyes adjusted his jacket, across the back of a chair, and another chair not far behind it, so that the shadow of both combined had seemed as head and shoulder to him. 

And then, behind him, on the other side of the room, there came the soft sound of a rattling doorknob.

His nightstand lamp still shone, and he stared through the curtain at the door. 

He could see the light reflecting on the handle itself, and pulled back the curtain on the other side to be certain.

The rattle came again and, sure enough, the light shifted - the handle turned.

James was in no mood for games, not without Steven here, not knowing what Miss Carter truly wanted and so, carefully, he crept across the floor toward it. It rattled again as he passed the desk, and then was still, and he stood before it, his hand upon it, waiting. 

He counted to five, and then to ten, and then to fifteen-

And the next rattle had him gripping the doorknob tightly to twist it, and pull the door open so suddenly that a rush of cold air blew right over him. 

All his ire evaporated.

He had expected to find Miss Carter there, tormenting him and, instead, found an empty corridor, just as dim and blue as the corners of his room. The wind then, as it had been in the West wing - someone must have left open a window, or else not blocked a draught, and rattled the old door and it’s fixings in the frame.

He pushed the door back again, all but closed, so that it could not rattle, and went back to bed. And if, when he drew the curtains and closed his eyes he felt as though someone were standing by the bed, it was his nerves, his loneliness, his wish for Steven to be home, and nothing more.

***

In the morning, James ventured downstairs.

He wanted to believe it was a desire to see other people, to get out into the sunshine, but a large part of it at least was that he did not want to be in his room. Part of him wanted to sleep in Steven’s but, if he did that and had the nightmares, he’d never feel safe in there again, either. 

“Monty?” James asked, as Monty prepared to leave him alone for breakfast. “Would you join me?” 

Monty seemed surprised by the request but put the cloth he’d been carrying over his shoulder.

“If you don’t mind,” he said, “of course, Sir. Is there anything in particular?”

James shook his head.

“No,” he said. “Just…”

Monty nodded after a moment or two. 

“Better with two,” he said softly, and James nodded. “I understand.”

James couldn’t find it in himself to be ashamed of it, not in front of Monty. Monty who’d been so kind to him, who’d been so tolerant and patient in the face of James’ injuries. 

“Tonight,” James said, trying not to allow hope to color his voice too much. “Will it be tonight?” 

“First thing tomorrow, from what he told me,” Monty answered, and then he gave a smile that did not reach his eyes. “Maybe in time for breakfast, eh?”

James nodded.

“Maybe,” he said.

He couldn’t put his finger on it. He didn’t know how he knew. But, despite what Monty had told him, James feared for Steven in his absence. The weather remained as fine as ever, sunny and bright and warm, but it felt false, like tempting fate. Something was wrong, Steven, James felt, must be walking into danger. James felt nothing so much as the feeling that he ought to be beside him when he did. 

And so James sat in the library with a book open on the music stand, and did not read, jumping at every sound. At lunch, he and Gabe and Jacques and Dum Dum sat at a table beneath the chestnut, but he did not eat. Captain played fetch with Dum Dum, and all James could think of was how even the strength of Dum Dum’s arm could not satisfy Captain’s desire to play. He was not run until he was tired, and so he spent the rest of the day startling at each small sound, and James’ nerves began to fray with it. 

Alpine, upset by James’ anxiousness, left him alone, and James grew tired of checking the hour to find it mostly unchanged. 

“I’m going for a walk,” he said out loud, in case anyone could hear him, but the only answer was the scrabble of clawed feet on hardwood, and he didn’t even need to look down to know that Captain was by his side. 

It felt exhausting to be wandering the grounds without Steven, like the last hour or so before travel, when all was packed and the only thing to do was wait for the train. He could throw a stick for Captain, almost as far as Steven, he noted, though perhaps that was the direction of the wind. Part of him wanted to go to the cliff, but he did not trust himself near it now, did not trust that fate wouldn’t take its chance where it could. 

It would destroy Steven, to have two spouses fallen from the same place. 

He went instead through the woods, so that he could not be seen from the house, and avoided the rose garden. The lights had been taken down now, and it wouldn’t be the same alone anyway. 

~

That night, after dinner had been eaten, James sat once more at his typewriter. He sat there until late, thought perhaps of writing about the house, but he was no poet, not at all. Even loving Steven couldn’t make him one, and if that wouldn’t do it, then nothing would.

Steven had said he loved him. It had to be true. James felt that it was true. 

That had been that last thing he’d said to James.

_Remember that I love you._

But Miss Carter had seemed so certain, so sure. 

He shook his head. On Friday morning, the Doctor would be here, and then-

The telephone rang.

James stared at it, and then looked at the clock on the mantel. It was almost eleven, who would be calling now?

And he realized suddenly that he knew. 

He knew who would be on the other end of the line if he answered.

It rang, and it rang, and it rang. 

He picked it up.

Silence. Silence on the other end aside from that strange buzzing, clicking sound.

He waited, and no-one spoke. He waited longer, and still there was silence.

“Who is this?” James said. “What do you want?”

 _“Who is this?”_ the voice repeated, alongside a strange buzzing sound on the other end of the telephone call, the words half garbled. _“What do you want?”_

“I’m tellin’ you, stop calling this number!” James answered. 

And then the voice spoke again, in a way that unnerved him enough that he almost put down the receiver, the voice somehow softer but more, as though the person on the other end had brought their mouth so close to the receiver so to murmur in James’ ear.

 _“Mister de Winter,”_ knowing and cunning and chilling all at once. 

James gasped, a chill racing down his spine at the ridiculous audacity of such a call, at the discomfort of being ignored by someone he did not know. 

“Stop it,” he said, but the voice did not.

 _“Mister de Winter,”_ it said.

“Enough, I said!” James told it.

 _“Mister de Winter,”_ it said.

James shook his head, his temper fraying.

“Look, what the fuck do you want?” he yelled. 

And from behind him a voice said,

“Mister de Winter.”

James whirled around with a cry, his skin prickling into goosebumps in an instant, but there was no-one there. The room was empty.

He slammed the telephone back down onto the receiver and pressed his hand over his eyes. 

He needed to sleep, that was it. That would explain all the absurdities - he’d been awake the whole night of the party and hadn’t slept properly since. In the morning, Steven would arrive, and he could talk to him then, and sort out this whole mess. Find out once and for all what the point of it all was, and whether Steven could love a second when he had so dearly loved the first.

But it was no use.

That night James dreamed of him again. He dreamed of their bodies lying close, the heat of Steven’s skin surrounding him, the touch of Steven’s artist’s hands. He saw Steven’s face beneath him, creased with effort, his lips bitten red and parted over sounds of desperation, his brow furrowed, his hair damp against the white pillow, his body resting on a yellow coverlet. The corner of his mouth pulled upward as his closed eyes squeezed shut, his shoulders lifting as his head rocked back. And then he looked down between them, his expression slack as his gasping hastened. The skin James felt beneath both his hands turned to wet canvas instead, Steven’s ardent moans to gasps of pain, and the pillow beneath his head turned to the lawn and petals of the ground of Midwood’s rose garden. There were people around them now - a tall broad shadow and one more slender - but James could not see their faces. And, when Steven raised his hand between them, he stared at it in disbelief, his fingers shining wet and red with blood-

James woke with a cry, pushing himself sideways as his hand tried to apply pressure in reality as he had in the dream. He almost tore back the covers to run to Steven’s room, instinct demanding that he see for himself, but the world came back to him over the ache of his pounding head, blood roaring in his ears so that they sang, and the room seemed to grow colder with it. They were not in mainland Europe. Steven was not bleeding out in the rose garden, there was no wound to heal, no injury to dress. 

Steven was not here. 

Steven was in London, with his nebulous plans in progress, and would not be back for another day. 

James was alone. 

His head _ached_ , his hands still felt sticky from the remembered blood, and he shook his head, pushing back the covers anyway - he went to the window, to look at the rose garden, to show himself that it was nothing but a dream. 

There was someone standing in the rose garden.

James felt the hair rise on the back of his neck, felt his blood cool, and he gripped the windowsill with a white-knuckled grip.

There was someone standing in the rose garden, someone pale and tall and swathed in fabric - perhaps a dress, perhaps a coat - and they-

James gasped, instinct sweeping over him all at once, and he reared back to drop to the floor. Though it had been hard to discern in the shadows cast by the moonlight, it had been impossible to deny once his eyes adjusted - they were staring up at the house.

No, not at the house. They’d been staring straight at _him._

James’ heart beat wildly in his chest, his face flush with the warmth of adrenaline, and he pressed himself up against the wall half convinced that, if he looked, he should find them levitating at the window.

This was madness. This was pure stupidity and he _hated_ that, after everything he’d seen and done, all it took was a trespasser and a bad dream to reduce him to childlike terror, simply because Steven was no longer in the house with him. Heat burned in his eyes, too, and he pushed his knuckles into them to dispel the sting there. This was _pathetic,_ that he couldn’t stare down a woman in a garden while standing in his own bedroom. 

He refused - _refused_ \- to let himself be cowed by it, and ignored the voice in his mind that told him he already had been. 

He pushed himself up, and stood up, and looked down into the rose garden.

Empty. 

Still, he felt better for having checked, for having stood to look back down, for there was nothing in the rose garden that stood where the figure had been, nothing that he could have mistaken in irrational fear. Someone had been in the rose garden, and they were not there now. 

As he stood there in silence, the night windless and still, there came from behind him a long, slow, creak of aging wood that made his hair rise once more. He turned, his hand still on the windowsill, to look, and saw that the door had come open and was slowing to a halt before it could come into contact with the wall.

Beyond the door lay darkness, deep and yawning, and he stared at the doorway because he could look nowhere else, because he thought at any moment that the figure from the rose garden might appear. 

He stared for long enough that the corners of the room seemed to darken, and his breath came faster, his heart beat more strongly. The darkness through the doorway seemed to waver as he watched, and then began to turn - from yawning dark to sickly green, and then to yellow, and then-

A bright, glowing light appeared from around the doorframe-

 _“Jesus!”_ he gasped, more prayer than exclamation, clutching at his chest as his heart leapt up into his throat.

But it was a candle. 

It was a candle and, holding it, Miss Carter stood there. 

“Sir rang the servant’s bell,” she said, holding the candle before her.

He felt his blood warm. He was tired of her, sick to death of seeing her.

“No,” he answered. “I didn’t.”

She did not move, and did not balk.

“Sir, the servant’s bell sounded from this room.”

“I don’t care where it sounded from, I don’t even know where the servant’s bell _is_ in this room, I’m telling you I didn’t ring the damn thing,” he answered, and she stared at him blankly. 

“Is there anything you require?” she said, as though she hadn’t accused him of something impossible, but her mouth was set and her eyes were hard and unblinking, and she said it like a challenge. 

“No,” he said bitterly. “No, go away, I don’t need anything,” but he felt emboldened a moment later. She had come here in the dead of night to accuse him, to stand there in her house clothes and belittle him in his pajamas, when he was to be the second Mr de Winter and she was little more than a housekeeper. “Hold on,” he said. “Put light on and then leave, and shut the door behind you.”

And he was pleased with how little his voice shook, how steady his gaze remained, how he didn’t say _please_ because he didn’t mean to be kind.

“Very good, Sir,” she said.

“And,” he said, and he hated her then - she and her vile smugness, her disdain for him, she who had hurt Steven deliberately and made a fool of him all at once, “there was someone in the grounds tonight, and it’s not the first time. Tell someone to take Captain out, find where they were and stop it happening again.” 

“Very good, Sir,” she said, and reached into the room - the light from her candle illuminating those darkened corners to show them empty - to turn on the light, and pull the door closed behind her.

The nearest chair to him was the one for the table in the alcove of the window, and so he reached for it unsteadily and lowered himself into it, his knees weak and his courage fading. Then, as an afterthought, he twisted in his chair, and pulled the curtains closed behind him.

Steven would be home soon. 

Just one more night, and Steven would be home.

***

James woke on the Wednesday sitting up in bed, with the overhead light and the lamp on the nightstand still on. He had resolved to stay awake until it had at least been light enough to see, but did not know when sleep had overcome him.

The bedroom door was closed, as Miss Carter had left it, and a knot in his stomach unwound completely when he realized that Steven would be home today. 

It was almost half past eight, and the sky was overcast, rain pouring down outside, and so the light had not woken him as readily as it might if the sun had risen in a cloudless sky through his east-facing window. He pulled back the covers and stood - he would wash, and put on a fresh suit, and go down to breakfast. With any luck, Steven would already be at the table when he arrived. 

~

When he had washed, standing in the tub with a facecloth dipped in hot water and soap because he hadn’t time to draw a bath, he shaved, wiping his smudged hand-print from the fogged mirror first to make sure he had lathered his face correctly. It was difficult to shave with only one hand, but he could do a great deal by now through touch alone, and only caught himself once, behind his jaw on the left hand side. He would have preferred for Steven to have done it, but Steven was not there, and so he did it himself. 

He dressed in a suit of dark blue, with a crisp white shirt and no tie, and stood before the bedroom mirror. Even with his sleeve pinned, he still had a favorite suit, one he preferred himself in, and he brushed a small speck of dust from the lapel. Regardless of how Steven felt, James could do his best, couldn’t he?

When he went downstairs, he didn’t realize he was nervous until Monty joined him for breakfast.

“Afraid I’ll have to take this spot,” he said gently. “Shouldn’t be too long, though, probably well before lunchtime.”

James nodded, and tried not to look too dejected, tried not to be obviously on edge about Steven’s return. 

He tried to think of something to say. _Oh, splendid,_ perhaps, or, _wonderful. What’s the weather looking like today?_ But everything he thought of felt trite and silly, and he didn’t feel anything except restless, like standing at the platform and waiting for one’s train to arrive, or arranging to meet someone for lunch though you still had an engagement later in the afternoon. Instead, they sat in silence but for the sound of their cutlery on crockery, and the hissing of the rain outside.

He ate a few eggs, and Monty had put bacon and sausage on the table too but, though James found himself eating all of it, he didn’t taste much of it at all. 

When Monty got up to take the first of the dishes, James tried to think of something he could do to occupy himself until Steven was home - Steven had said he loved him, and James loved him very much. Regardless of how the events of the next few days would play out, he had missed Steven greatly.

He stood, squinting at the rain. No walking today, then, evidently. Captain would not be pleased - unless James donned rubber boots and a raincoat and took him out later, perhaps. It would depend how late Steven was, and how bad the rain. He resolved to go to the morning room, and try again to type, and he gathered the rest of the dishes into neat stacks, and put Monty’s paper…

He frowned. 

Monty’s paper was folded so that only the upper half of the front page was visible, pinned in place by the saucer of his teacup.

“Ah, here he is!” Monty was saying out in the corridor.

The second half of the headline read “KILLED IN ACCIDENT,” and, from what James could see of the photograph…

Was that Miss Carter?

James moved the teacup from the paper and picked the paper up, unfolding it. 

‘INNOVATION CONSUL MEMBERS KILLED IN ACCIDENT’ the headline read.

And there was Miss Carter, and the dark-haired man who’d taken Steven, standing by a light aircraft, with perhaps six other men. He didn’t know most of them, all nondescript faces standing in a row with the pilot a blur of motion beneath a smart cap. But the leftmost man was blond, sharp-featured. The man who’d visited the house - Thompson. Which would have been enough to stun him, but the second man in from the left, a small, balding little fellow with a bow-tie, round spectacles, and a plump, smug little face-

James wasn’t aware of making a sound, wasn’t aware of moving, but he was aware of the room disappearing around him, and then of a flare of pain in his knees and then-

Then . . .

Then pain so strong he thought someone must have hit him about the head, that someone must have taken a poker from the fire and swung it full-tilt as his skull.

Sensation abandoned him for a long while, his heart pounding, pain like a blade digging deep into his head and, when the white static of agony cleared enough for him to think, there were hands on him, at his shoulders, holding him down-

No, holding him upright as his stomach twisted - was he on the floor?

“Oh God,” Steven was saying to him, “oh God, please, sweetheart, talk to me-”

But his tongue was thick in his mouth, the world was spinning around him.

Someone was talking, more that one person was talking, but he couldn’t pull the meanings together, the ringing in his ears was too loud, the pain dripping down the back of his throat like acid.

“Help!” someone said, but James couldn’t reach them, his hand couldn’t make purchase. 

The floor disappeared out from under him, and then there was solid head at the back of his legs and his shoulders, his existence tilting on its axis. 

“…Christ, the fucking _paper!”_ floated through the white-hot pain and dizzying buzz in his ears, but soon he lost his grip on the world about him, and sank backwards into darkness.


	12. The Last Night

When James woke, he was alone. 

The room was a blur about him, his skin tight, his head aching and, when first he tried to move, he couldn’t. 

There was no confusion about his whereabouts, no difficulty in recalling the events of the morning. He knew that he was in the bed in his room, and knew that he had collapsed. He tried to remember what had happened after breakfast and found that he could, in great detail. Breakfast, the dishes, the paper. Steven.

Miss Carter, who had stood next to the dark-haired man, across from Thompson. 

Next to. 

It made a buzzing sound in his mouth, the word he wanted. Tickled the tip of his tongue and tasted like blood. It made his face ache, his head throb, it made his hands curl in claws beside him.

“No, he’s awake,” someone said, Monty it sounded like. “I said stand _back,_ Steve, I know.”

He tried to speak but only made sound, and another blur of color - a man, Monty, and someone beside him, too - appeared in his field of vision. It was still raining, he could hear it, and he ached from his head down. It spread out into his shoulders and there was the taste of metal and charred flesh on his tongue.

“What happened?” he said, though the words was almost as much of a blur as the figures around him.

“You had a fit,” Monty told him. “Something forced a memory to come back and it gave you a fit.”

“Doctor’s on Friday,” he said, because they were going to wait for the doctor.

“It was an accident, old boy,” Monty said softly. “You’ll be alright.”

~

James began to see clearly again a short time later. Instead of the underwater blur of people around him, they became people with faces, the people he knew. He was glad that Miss Carter wasn’t there, and he was grateful for it, but neither was Steven.

“Where is he?” he said, why were they fussing around him? “What time is it, where is he?”

“He’s here,” Dum Dum said, “you’re alright, take it easy.”

His head was aching. 

“Say Wednesday,” said a voice that was heavily accented and hard for him to place for a moment, and then he recognized it. Jacques. Not say Wednesday, but _ç’est_ Wednesday. “It is perhaps eleven, a little past.” 

James felt cold to hear him speak English. He didn’t think he’d _ever_ heard it.

“You’re scarin’ me, buddy,” he said, and Jacques huffed a laugh through his nose.

“In that case,” he said, _“Tu devrais acheter une montre, hein?”_

And James laughed a little.

“I _had_ a watch,” he answered. “Think I was wearin’ it on my left hand a couple years ago…”

Jacques’ eyebrows went up, but he nodded, waved James off. 

“We’ve called the doctor up from the village - it’s not brilliant but it’s the best we can do at short notice.”

“Aw, you,” James said, feeling suddenly mortified. “Jeez, it’s not _that_ bad-”

“I beg to differ, Sir, you had quite a fit and lost a fair amount of blood-”

“What?” James said, looking down at himself, holding up his hand. _“Blood?”_

“Nosebleed,” Jim said. “Your shirt’s soakin’ in the bathroom.”

That would explain why he was in his pajama shirt. 

“Where’s Steven?” he said.

“Steven’s out in the corridor ‘cause they won’t let him in!” Steven answered, his voice sharp and hard. 

“Gabriel, will you go out and talk to him please?” Monty was saying, and Gabe did, but James tried to pull himself upright a little. 

“Why can’t he come in and talk to me?” 

“Because something triggered a fit and we’re trying to surround you with calm people,” Monty answered.

“Oh, fuck off,” Steven answered, but Gabe said something to him a moment later that James couldn’t catch.

“How about having maybe one’a you people in here ‘stead of all’a’ya?” he said, and Dum Dum gave Monty a _look_.

“Alright,” Monty said. “Who d’you want?”

James glanced at the doorway. 

“Steven,” he said. “And you.”

“That’s two,” Monty said, “but I’ll allow it. Do you know when Grosvenor’ll be here?”

“Said he wouldn’t be long,”Jim answered. “You want me to go out front and wait?”

“Would you?” Monty said, and Jim gave him a quick salute and left. 

He was nearly knocked off his feet by Steven, who appeared in the doorway at about the same time, with Gabe very close behind him.

“Wait!” Gabe said, but Steven did not.

“No, he wants me in-”

And then there was a short-lived argument between the two of them which Monty solved by clearing his throat very loudly. 

“James would like Steven in here. Given that hasn’t presented a problem so far, I’d say we’re all right.”

“Yeah well, _you_ try stopping him,” Gabe said.

“It wasn’t an accusation, it was an observation,” and then he turned back to James. “Your freight train has arrived sir.”

Steven frowned at him.

“I’m not a freight train,” he said.

“Much more of a bull in china shop,” Monty conceded, but Steven was walking over to him.

“How d’you feel, are you okay? Can I get you anything?” 

And James narrowed his eyes at Steven, searching Steven’s face with his gaze. 

He could ask, of course. Who was the man in the car with you, who was the man in the paper? But Steven wouldn’t tell him. None of them would.

“I want to know something,” he said, and Steven looked pained. 

“I’ll do my best,” he answered.

James nodded.

“Do you love me?” 

Steven’s mouth dropped open.

“What?” he said. “Yes! You’re the love of my _life_ , James-”

“What about Rebecca?” he said. “Or this man during the war?” 

And Steven shook his head. 

“You,” Steven answered, “are the love of my life, James.”

It seemed, James did not say, that he’d had quite a few. 

~

Dr Grosvenor was a portly man with gray hair and a gray beard and mustache, and small round spectacles on his face. 

He arrived with a black case and listened to James’ heart, checked how well he could see, had him ask some questions he could actually answer. 

“Does your eye hurt at all, Mr Barnes?” he asked, and James frowned where he sat in the bed.

“A little,” he answered, and gestured to it with his hand. “Whenever I remember something, usually.”

Dr Grosvenor looked at him for a moment.

“I see. And your other eye?” 

“My other eye?” James asked. “No?” 

“Good,” Grosvenor told him. “I’ll put your name down and mark you as an emergency, in case you need me again.”

“Thank you,” Steven said, his voice low. “My brother’s never been fragile but this one shocked us all.”

“Don’t worry,” Dr Grosvenor said, touching his palm to Steve’s upper arm as he passed. “Fragility has nothing to do with it. I was in the first one, you know. It stays with you.” And then he turned back to James. “Mind you get some rest now. Eat well but not overmuch, and drink plenty of water. I’d want you awake for a while as well but sleeping will help you. Can someone wake you every hour or so?”

“Yes,” Steven answered. “There are six of us to watch him, we’ll make sure.”

Dr Grosvenor nodded.

“Alright,” he said, and extended a hand for James to shake. “In that case, I shall head back down into the village. Monty can hold of me if you need it.”

“Absolutely,” Steven answered, and Dr Grosvenor left.

Steven looked at him steadily, but James could see his gaze drifting, over to Steven’s left and so James’ right.

“What, what is it?” James asked. “What’s happened?” 

There were another few moments of pause before Steven inclined his head in James’ direction. 

“You burst a blood vessel in your eye,” he said. “It’s kinda terrifying.”

“Oh,” James said. 

“Yeah. If it starts hurtin’ lemme know, yeah?” 

James nodded.

“Sure,” he said. “So now what? Do I get to spend the rest of the day in bed?” 

“At least in your pajamas,” Steve nodded. “They weren’t kiddin’ - I thought you’d had it. I thought I’d gotten home just in time to have you…” but he shook his head and let the end of his sentence hang in the air. 

James looked at him, at the way he stood and the hunch of his shoulders and the fear and worry and exhaustion in his eyes. 

“You gonna keep an eye on me?” he said, and Steven nodded. 

“Yeah,” he answered. 

“And who’s gonna keep an eye on you?” 

The corner of Steven’s mouth twitched up in a smile, and then he lifted both hands to James’ ears, moving slowly, so that James could have moved away had he wanted to. The he turned his head back over his shoulder. 

“Monty!” he yelled, his voice muffled enough that it didn’t upset James’ headache. 

Monty didn’t take long to come back, wherever he’d gone to, and Steven took his hands from James’ ears once he had. 

“Cards, Sir?” he said, and Steven looked at James. 

“Sure,” James nodded, and so Monty went to fetch the boys. 

Mercifully, they did not bring Miss Carter with them - only cold meats and buttered bread, and-

“Did you make pudding?” Steven asked. 

He had indeed made pudding.

***

James slept intermittently throughout the day, mostly not through choice. He didn’t feel completely at fault - it was easy to sleep in an enormous bed, well-fed and surrounded by friends, easier still when Steven was doing most of the card-playing, which meant he did not have to concentrate. Captain was sitting by the table, his head on one side each time a hand was dealt. Even Alpine had spent some time in the room with them.

By the time they’d had a second meal, James was becoming restless. 

“I want to walk,” he said. “I didn’t damage my legs, I had a nosebleed. And you’ll be tellin’ me it’s time for bed any minute now, I know you.”

And Steven wanted to refuse, James could tell. He wanted to tell James it was dangerous, and that he worried. He also looked fairly sheepish about the remark about sleeping, from which James could tell he’d been right. 

“You’ll be next to me, won’t you?” he said. “I’ll go wandering down the corridor in my pajamas and you’ll be right there with me, no?” 

Steven looked at the rest of them.

“Want us to clear outta the place?” he said, and James shook his head.

“You can stay if you want,” he said. “I’m not sleeping in here.”

“No?” Steven asked softly, and he seemed surprised by it. 

“Unless you want me to?” James asked, and Steven shook his head.

“No,” he said. “I’m just surprised you’d still want to be in with me.”

James looked at him, frowned the inch or so up at him. 

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s talk where the walls don’t have ears.”

Dum Dum laughed, and James gave Steven a pointedly raised eyebrow.

“Alright,” Steven said softly. “But just to the window and back.”

~

It wasn’t difficult to walk, though Steven refused to walk arm in arm as usual. Instead, he walked beside James, his left arm across the small of James’ back, James’ right hand in his right hand.

“You know, if I fall, you’re holdin’ my hand. That’s how you break your nose.”

“I’m way more likely to break it on somebody’s fist,” Steven answered. “And you’re not going to fall, I won’t let you.”

James did his best to look ahead of them, but it was difficult to want to. 

“I worry,” he said quietly, and Steven was busy watching where he put his feet. 

“Huh?”

James scoffed at him, and Steven looked up, indignant.

“What?”

“I worry,” James told him again, bringing them to a halt. “I worry that you don’t know what you want. I know I love you, I know you were a different man on the continent and now that you’re here it seems we’re either happy and in love or at odds. And I’m frightened of the things you haven’t told me.”

Steven stared at him for a long few moments. 

“James,” he said, shaking his head. “James, I know what I want. All I want. I just want for you to be as safe and as happy as you _can_ be - I love you. I love you more than anything, James, I don’t know how to prove it to you.”

James took his hand from Steven’s and brought it to his cheek instead. 

“I don’t need proof,” he said. “I just want you to tell me that you’re sure.”

And Steven lifted his head and squared his shoulders.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything than I am of you,” he said, and James nodded. 

“Good,” he said. “The place hasn’t felt right without you. I haven’t felt right without you.”

And Steven drew him closer then, wrapped his arms around James and held him close for a while. 

“I’m here,” he said. “It doesn’t matter what happens, I’ll be here.”

***

They did not go to the window.

They were almost there when James realized that he would have to look out of it, out over the rose garden, and he did not trust himself to do so. Steven understood immediately, and they walked back to the bedroom to bid everyone goodnight. 

“Monty,” James said, “where’s the servant’s bell in here?” as Steven was collecting the pillows from the bed. 

“By the mantel,” he answered, pointing to the small circular protrusion next to the fireplace. “You’re out of luck, though, they were cut during the second renovation apparently. They tried to put them back but they crossed half and left the others as they were. Absolute blighters.”

James frowned. 

“Oh,” he said. 

“Why, thinking of calling for service?” 

James laughed with the rest of them, but he could tell Steven knew something was wrong. 

He went into the bathroom to collect his shaving kit for the morning, and wiped the mirror clean of its handprint before he leaned forward and lifted the lid of his right eye.

It looked injured when he first saw it, a tinge of red beside his iris. But, when he lifted the lid, he saw a huge swathe of red across the top of his eyeball, like a wine stain but far brighter. If he hadn’t known it was harmless, he would have worried, for it looked gruesome though he couldn’t feel it at all. 

“Come on, then, sweetheart,” Steven told him. “I brought up a book, we can read for a while.”

“Mm,” James said. “Alright.”

And they bid each other goodnight. 

James felt relief, more than anything else, for being back in Steven’s room with him, and he got into bed while Steven dressed.

“So you’re going to be up all night, are you?” James said as he went into his bathroom.

He left the door open so that they could speak, and James could see glimpses of him in his shaving mirror.

“Yeah,” he answered. “Give you a nudge on the hour, find out what you think your middle name is.”

“Now of all the things I managed to forget, why wasn’t ‘Buchanan’ ever one of ‘em?”

Steven laughed. 

“Well it’s an awful lot to try and forget,” he said, and James smiled, shook his head. 

When Steven had finished his ablutions, he turned off the overhead light and got into bed beside James. 

“I’m keeping that light on,” Steven said. “Will it disturb you?”

“No,” James answered. “You’re a brick wall anyway.”

Steven laughed, and propped himself up against the headboard, arranging his pillows. 

“You wanna snuggle in?” he said, lifting his arm, and James pushed himself closer. 

It wasn’t fantastically comfortable, but it was warm, and it was safe. 

Steven began to read from his volume - something about Cézanne - and James closed his eyes and listened. He wasn’t tired, not yet, but there was little he could think of that would be more of a comfort than lying with Steven like this.

***

He did not know, when Steven woke him the first time, that this would be their last night at the house.

He did not know the second time, or the third.

When he came awake by himself at almost two, he knew immediately that something was wrong. The light on the nightstand was out. The air was cold. Steven was not reading, nor was he talking about his artwork, or about the dog, or about the house. He was dead silent, holding his breath. And, when James looked up at him, Steven was looking down at him, his eyes black hollows, his face starting to-

“Easy, easy!” Steven was saying, there were hands at his shoulders. “It’s alright, James, James, it’s alright-”

“Don’t,” James said on a gasp, his stomach turning, but the room was light, the curtain drawn and Steve, Steven was awake and alive and close to him, warm and moving and…

God. 

God he hated this place.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered. “Fuck. _Fuck_ , I didn’t want to have nightmares in here.”

“Sweetheart,” Steven said softly. 

“I’m so sick of them,” James answered, and he pushed his palm over his face angrily. “I’m sick of it - every night I think there’s someone in the rose garden or someone out in the corridor or you’re…you’re lying there dead and I can’t help you.”

“It’s just dreams, sweetheart,” Steven was saying, and James looked down at his sweaty palm…

His. 

Hand. 

“Steven,” he said, staring at it. “Steven I need to ask you something important and I need you to be sure about the answer.”

Steven, whose hands were still either side of James, who was sitting in front of him in rumpled bedclothes after James had shouted himself awake, and still trying to help him. 

“I’ll do my best,” he said. 

“Did you touch my shaving mirror?” 

There was a pause as Steven considered this.

“Your shaving mirror?” he asked, and James nodded.

“Yes,” he said. “In my bathroom.”

He couldn’t take his eyes off his hand. 

“No?” he said. “Not that I know of?”

And James nodded. He hadn’t thought so. 

“I’ve had to wipe off a handprint every time I want to use it,” he said, and then he swallowed hard as his blood cooled just to think of it. “It’s a left hand.”

He looked up at Steven, but Steven seemed confused at first, and then unconcerned a moment later. 

“Perhaps it’s one of the others.”

“I was having nightmares,” James answered. “Waking dreams. And I thought that’s all they were but…I’m less sure with every day.”

Steven looked at him, brows drawing together slowly.

“How do you mean?”

“Steven, I don’t feel safe in this house. Something isn’t right about it,” and Steven seemed to become more of himself in that moment. 

He seemed to broaden, to become taller. 

“What else has happened?” he said, and James wet his lips. 

“I…keep seeing someone in the rose garden. And you know I saw someone in my room. While you were away, I thought someone was turning the handle to the door but there was no-one in the corridor and…”

And suddenly his voice failed him. Steven would never believe him. He’d had a fit this afternoon, he barely knew who he was. And here he sat telling Steven about noises in the night and figures in the garden.

“Have you told anyone else?” Steven asked, but James shook his head.

“No,” he said. “I know it’s crazy-”

“It’s not crazy,” Steven answered. “If it’s upsetting you that much-”

“It’s-!” James answered, and then didn’t know how to continue. “It’s not a dream. I wasn’t dreaming. I was certain I must just have imagined it but…There was someone in my room. More than once, there’s been someone in my room, and…”

He suppressed a shiver. 

“They vanish into shadows, or disappear behind bedposts. Steven, you have to believe me-”

“I believe you,” Steven told him. “I already told you - I’ve seen things I didn’t think were possible. If you’re telling me you saw it, I believe you-”

And then he stopped. 

James wasn’t sure why at first, but then he heard it. 

The soft rattle of a doorknob. 

James’ hair stood on end, his heart beat faster. Steven looked back at the doorway over his shoulder, and James leaned a little to see past him. It happened again.

“What the hell?” Steven muttered, but James grabbed his wrist so hard the skin around his fingertips was white.

“Don’t,” he whispered. “Don’t say anything.”

The doorknob rattled again, and Steven turned his head back and looked at him. James must have looked as terrified as he felt, for Steven immediately brought his hands up to cradle James’ head-

Except that, slowly, the doorknob rattled, 

clicked, 

and began to turn. 

Steven turned over in the bed, putting his back to James to face the door, and it wasn’t until he put out a hand that James realized it was to hold him back. He wasn’t putting his back to James, he was putting himself between James and the door. James didn’t dare move, caught between the desire to hide behind Steve and the awful feeling of there being nowhere to run to. Outside lay the rose garden, and he knew that if he stood and went to look there would be a figure in it. 

Just as James’ door had done, it slowly began to open, at first barely at all, then more, until, at halfway, it _slammed_ back into the wall so hard that Steven jumped as hard as James did. 

And there was nothing. Nothing in the corridor, no-one. There were no voices from the other room, either, so the boys were either asleep or had gone to their own rooms. 

So he and Steven were alone. 

“Alright,” Steven said. “Stay where you are, keep your eye on the door.”

“What?” James whispered, and the wind _howled_ along the corridor. “Why, where are you going?” 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Steven answered. “But what I need is under the bed.”

James tried to steady his breathing, but he nodded before he could get his voice to work. 

“Yeah,” he said, and set his jaw. 

He kept his eyes on the yawning doorway, the gaping black maw of it. And when metal scraped over wood, James thought the world coming apart at the seams and startled, but then Steven was standing in front of him, between him and the door again, and he had a giant, circular-

Striped-

Metal-

Shield.

“Ow,” James said, pain lancing through his skull. “Jesus Christ, _ow, fuck,_ I definitely saw you in the war, that thing rings a fuckin’ _Liberty_ Bell.”

“Yep,” Steven answered. “That’s the idea.”

There was movement, only small, out in the corridor. He knew Steven had seen it, because Steve tensed, but it seemed small, pale, whatever it was. 

“What _is_ that?” James asked, and Steve leaned a little, changed his stance slightly. 

“Looks like a piece of paper,” he said, and then he looked back over his shoulder at James. “What do you think?” 

James shook his head, scraped his teeth over his lip. Then he pulled himself forward and got off the bed. 

“Paper,” he said. 

Steve nodded, and so James looked around the room. By the fire was a set of pokers, and he pointed. 

“Weapon,” he said, and stepped up behind Steve.

Together, they moved over to the fireplace, with Steven in front, holding the shield before them. James picked the heaviest looking of all of them, and made sure his grip was tight.

“Alright,” he said. “Let’s go.”

And so they moved to the doorway instead. 

Steve frowned down at it, and James tried to get a glimpse of it under the edge of the shield. 

It was his own piece of discarded paper, the one he’d written the short paragraph on before crumpling the whole thing and tossing it away. And, like the black marks on that first piece of paper, the whole thing had been blocked out by the keys of his typewriter, aside from the ends of two words.

_ ‘I could never forget get the sunlight on the water, as we stood there atop the cliff. He had driven me to the highest point in Monte Carlo that he could find, and told me about every place he could think of, and we were happy.’_

“Shit,” James muttered.

“Yep,” Steve answered, looking left and right out of the hallway. “What’s the plan - are we gettin’ out?”

And James stared down the empty hallway in one direction, and looked up it in the other. At the very, very end of it, a shadow moved out of sight. And, though it made ice crawl up his spine, though it made a knot form in his stomach, he knew the answer. The only answer.

“No,” he said. “She wants me to go to the West wing.”

And Steven looked at him, turned his head and stared at him.

“Alright,” he said. “Then stay behind me.”

~

The crept step by step along the corridor, the wind whistling aside them, under every door, through every window frame. It felt right, somehow, to be at Steve’s back with a weapon, though each step that they took made him more and more uneasy. 

When they came to each corner, Steve would check around it briefly, and then they would continue onward, for the way was always clear. The doors to the other rooms were closed, the windows locked. Each door that led to a corridor was shut tight, and the door before them to the West wing stood open.

“Sure ‘bout this?” Steve muttered, and James tightened his grip on the poker.

“Yes,” he said. “Even though I’m really not.”

“Makes two of us, pal.”

The corridor of the West wing was long, and wide, and each door was closed on it, just as each door had been closed in the East wing. Only one door stood open, halfway down the corridor, and James knew it instantly. 

It was the master bedroom. 

“I,” James said. “I gotta be honest, pal, I don’t wanna go in there.”

“Nope,” Steve said. “Me either. We’re goin’ in anyway?”

James drew a deep breath.

“Yeah,” he said. 

Steve paused at every door, just in case they swung open as the door to the bedroom had done. They crept in unison, step by step. And, when they reached the master bedroom, the corridor was lit suddenly by a rectangle of light that grew brighter - light from within the room that somehow dawned like the sun. 

Concerned, afraid, James looked over his shoulder….

But the room…

It was empty of people, there was no darkened figure in the corner, the shutters did not rattle on the window.

Every single dust sheet had been removed. The room itself seemed alive - the windows were clear, the shutters open. The tables were polished, the air clear and clean. The lights were lit and a book lay on the table, the dust covers nowhere to be found.

The wardrobe stood open, full of old soldiers’ clothes. This was the place from which he’d retrieved the reefer jacket and, though it hadn’t been his own, James knew it now for something similar. And, on the wardrobe door, neatly pressed and hung on a hanger, was a set of olive drabs. He could see the cigarette burn on the bottom of one trouser cuff-

From a cigarette that bounced, outside the bar in London. 

The fire was lit, crackling, and the wind that whistled down the chimney made the flames gutter from time to time.

The coverlet on the bed was yellow-

Yellow, twisted in his hands and pulled from the corners of the bed.

Yellow, crumpled on the floor as he tried to get to his feet.

Yellow, over the space where his arm used to be.

“I was here,” he said. 

And he turned to look at Steve.

Steve still stood in the doorway, looking stunned.

“James,” he said.

“What the hell is this, Steve?” 

Steven took two steps towards him.

“James please-”

“What is this?” James answered. “All of this, what’s happening?” 

“I want you to calm down,” Steve told him, and James refused.

“Why the hell should I?” he said. “What the hell is going on here, and you tell me the _truth_ , damn you!”

And Steve stared at him, jaw set, head up, eyes burning. 

“I didn’t lose a wife,” he said. “I never had one.”

“But…” he said. “Miss Carter said there was old love in the walls. That I wasn’t a patch on her-”

“What?” Steven asked. “A patch on…?”

“Rebecca,” James answered, and then Steve did something curious. 

He turned his head and looked, for a moment, completely at sea.

“Rebecca?” he asked. “Miss Carter said _you_ weren’t a patch on _Rebecca?”_

“Yes,” James said. 

And what was he to say? That she’d tried to convince him the best way forward was to take his own life? That she’d spat vitriol at him with every ounce of vehemence she had?

“She’s the one who told me to dress like that,” he said. “For the party.”

Steven narrowed his eyes, baffled. 

“James…My husband fell from a train in the alps during the war, when I should have caught him. That’s who I lost, that’s what happened to me, that’s why I hate talking about the war. I killed my husband.”

And James laughed. 

“You,” he said. “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got to tell me?”

“Ask his name,” Miss Carter said from right behind him, and when James turned his head to look at her there was no-one there. 

The room was empty aside from the two of them, but it had never been empty at all, had it? There’d always been a ghost standing between them. 

“What was his name?” James asked, and Steve went white. 

“You have to understand,” he said. “We were too late - by the time we got to Siberia, any time somebody said my name-”

“What was his name?” James asked again.

“We weren’t supposed to meet in Monte,” Steve answered. “It was an accident, I never should have-”

“WHAT WAS HIS NAME!?” James shouted, his voice ringing in the crystal vases and service bells in the silence that followed. 

Steve’s eyes turned liquid, his mouth dragged downward at the corners, redness at the tip of his nose.

“His name is James Buchanan Barnes,” Steve answered. “We couldn’t marry but we said our vows on the rooftop on fourth of July 1939, on my twenty-first birthday. Fireworks and everything.”

“What?” James said. 

“You were drafted into the war and I followed you, and you stayed with me, and you fell from a train in the Alps because I couldn’t catch you.”

“This isn’t true,” James said, but even as he said it he knew he was wrong. “I’m not married!”

“I gave you my father’s watch, that you wore on your left hand, and you gave me a volume of poetry you’d handwritten with your father’s best pen, which you gave to me too,” Steve answered, and took a step forward, but James flung out a hand and shook his head.

“No,” he said, “don’t come anywhere…” and he swayed until he could find the window still. “Don’t come near me.”

“Two days after you fell, I put a plane down in the arctic,” Steve went on, “but they found me, both of us. We went to look for you and- And we found you! But by the time we did-” metal and ice and pain and the same sounds over and over, they wouldn’t let him sleep, the wouldn’t let him clean, he wept in the dark, he cried for-

“Steve-”

“We came for you James but you didn’t know us when we found you. You couldn’t look at me.”

“This isn’t happening,” he said. “This isn’t happening to me.”

“Every time you saw me, you’d start screaming. Sometimes you bled from your nose - we’d brought you here-”

“To _Midwood?”_ James gasped. “You brought me to Midwood?”

But that was right, wasn’t it? In a hospital gown, with a missing arm and hair down to his shoulders, with barely any meat on his bones, he’d walked the long, dark corridor in the East Wing and lain in the yellow-covered bed in the master. He’d hung his clothes in the wardrobe and stared out at the sea, he’d been here.

Steve’s home, Steve’s-

It wasn’t Steve’s home, it wasn’t Steve’s, it was-

 _“Steady on, Sergeant, I’ve got you,”_ Falsworth wasn’t Steve’s man at all.

Jesus Christ, the place was _Monty’s,_ was Monty’s _family’s._

“It’s a code name,” Steve answered. “Midwood is a place in Brooklyn. This is Falsworth House.”

Steve, and Monty and Gabe and Jim and Tim and Jaques and-

“But I couldn’t stay,” Steve tells him. “I made you worse, whenever you saw me you’d scream and cry and claw at your face or have fits and…and so they told me to leave, to go traveling. I was supposed to be gone two years and then we’d try again. But when I saw you in Monaco and you could look at me, when you could _talk to me_ …”

“That’s why,” James breathes. “That’s why you seemed familiar, that’s why you looked so sad, oh God, oh my _God_ -”

“Peggy told me not to do it, but I just wanted to be with you, to help you recover,” Steve said. “I wouldn’t have done a thing, my hand to God, Buck-”

That _hurt_.

Everything else that had come before it was a mess of color and pain and light and a jumble of sensations he couldn’t detangle, but that noise, that sound, that _word_ -

“Miss Carter said you couldn’t love me,” he said. “She told me you couldn’t, that you didn’t-”

“Peggy?” Steve said. “What does she-”

Peggy-

Agent Carter-

A.C-

“Aissey,” James whispered. “Aissey, it’s A.C., it’s Agent Carter, Howard was talking to her on the phone in Monaco! This whole time I thought I was me but I’m _him_ -”

“You’re still you, Buck, please try to understand, we didn’t have a choice-”

“Don’t call me that,” James answered. “She was- after the party, she was watching me from here and I, she- She made me dress that way! She told me to dress as J.G. but I was…”

“She made you dress like yourself?” he whispered.

“She said she’d done it to hurt you,” James said. “She told me after the party, I came here and I asked her why and she said you couldn’t love me-”

“Bucky-” Steve said, and it _hurt_ -

“Don’t _call_ me that!” James answered. “She said you couldn’t ever love me like you loved your first love! She said your first love was still here, still in the walls, that I should jump-”

“James,” Steve said, but his voice was cold, his voice was _afraid._ “James, Peggy hasn’t been here since the day after Thompson was here. She left for London that night, she hasn’t been here in months.”

James stared at him.

“What? Steve, she spoke to me yesterday night,” he said, and Steve-

Gold hair and scraped knees, bright smile and persistent cough, blue uniform and target shield and hands on skin and mouths and blood and-

“What did you say?” he asked. 

His voice was quiet, dangerous. James wasn’t afraid of him. James knew him, James _knew_ him - however angry Steve might be, he wouldn’t hurt James. 

“I said she spoke to me yesterday night!” James answered. “She led me in here before, she showed me his things!”

“Your things.”

“SHE WAS HERE, IN THIS ROOM _WITH ME_!” he said, and Steve’s eyes narrowed. 

“I believe you,” he said.

He was angry - he was _furious._

But not with James.

He was breathing shallowly, quickly, his gaze unwavering. For a long few moments they stood at an impasse. A stalemate - neither moved, neither spoke. And then Steve, _born in Brooklyn,_ tall and beautiful, _best friend and husband, commanding officer_ Steve, lifted his hand with his index finger raised and passed it in front of his mouth.

The memories came unbidden- 

A forest in France- 

A castle in Austria-

A dam in Italy-

_Silence._

And then he raised his hand as if to salute, and touched it to his head behind his ear.

A base in Germany-

Another French forest-

A jeep-

Plane-

Theater-

_Listen._

There was no fire in the fireplace. 

The curtains did not flutter in the breeze. 

This wing of the house faced East across the wide lawns of the property but he could not hear the sea- 

And then he saw it. 

James didn’t know if it had always been there or if it had pulled itself out of the ether to be there now, but there was no light outside. No moon shone into the bedroom, no candles were lit, no lamps with burning bulbs but there, behind Steve, between them and the door, a figure stood. 

James’ blood turned cold.

It was just as silent as they were, stood just as still but it darker, made from shadow and dragged upward from the floor, its edges blurred and shifting. It stood there, as it had stood in doorways and in window frames, as it had passed down passageways and slipped into rooms, as it had rounded their beds and skittered through trees and Steve knew, James could see that Steve knew. His spine had straightened, he held his breath, he knew it was behind him and, as James watched, Steve’s beautiful lashes swept down over his cheekbones as he closed his eyes. 

Perhaps he prayed. James seemed to remember he might be a man who prayed. 

Steve’s eyes fluttered open again, and he looked at James like he was trying to memorize him, a though he were watching from a station platform as a train-

\- a t r a i n -

-departed. 

_No,_ James thought, understanding suddenly, _don’t leave me!_

“You’re a memory,” Steve said, and he said it gently, with a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, his eyes narrowed. “That’s all you ever were.”

James blinked at him, mouth falling open, stung down to his bones. It wasn’t true. It wasn’t true, no, no he was real, he couldn’t- He had to be real, this couldn’t be a dream, Steve had to be-

“You found him here and you felt his pain,” Steve said, voice level as he stared at James with fire in his eyes, and James realized suddenly that Steve _wasn’t talking to him._ “You learned how they hurt him and you used him. My husband. My Bucky.”

The figure seemed to broaden, to blacken, and eyes formed, white and shining, a head seemed to shape from the shapeless mass, a face from the head.

James stared at himself, a twisted, blank-eyed version of himself whose smile was sharp teeth and stretched from cheek to cheek like a cut throat. Fear clawed up his throat, bile rose with it. 

“You used my husband’s memory to frighten the man I love,” Steve said, and James was frozen to the spot, wanted to tell him to not to speak to it but he couldn’t make his voice work. “But here’s the thing.”

And then Steve, stupid, reckless, unbreakable, fearless Steve, _turned around to face it,_ Bucky saw the tension snap tight in his shoulders as he took it in. 

“I loved him before I knew what love was. I’ve loved him through pain and suffering, through fear and doubt, he is the other half of me. And you’re nothing compared with that.”

And

It

_screamed._

Nails on chalkboard, rending metal, it screamed, its great maw opening wide, too wide for its face - two of the windows shattered, the mirror over the fireplace _cracked_ with shards of glass that flew towards them, but it didn’t have what it wanted yet, and it seemed that he and Steve both realized at once what that would be. Like a rushing wave, like a cloud of smoke, it bloomed outward all at once like a mine underwater, like blood in a bathtub, and surged forward, right through Steve’s frame, right towards Bucky. Bucky stumbled back as it hit him, tripped, smacked backwards into the window frame and overbalanced, his world tilted around him and-

He knew. 

The world tilted around him and he knew the great stone terrace lay beneath his window, two huge, decadent floors down - he’d survived the train but that was snow and cold, not stone, and this wasn’t a fall like the train. He could feel the impact of the push against his chest, the great, breathtaking blow in his sternum, fingers closing on nothing but air for the second time in his life, ringing in his ears as his blood roared in his veins.

And then it was there. His whole life, _both lives_ , the childhood friend who’d scraped his knees, a rule across his knuckles for answering back; the young man who’d suffered every fever and sickness that passed through the neighborhood and still somehow found the time to save little birds or stray cats; the soldier who’d pulled him off a table in the middle of a war and loved him despite his brokenness, who’d kept him close at hand and risked himself to clamber out into the cold, sweeping air of the alps in a desperate attempt to save the man he loved.

A good man, his Steve, the other half of him.

In the brief split-second of realization, the memory of his life returning to him, the knowledge of who they were and what they’d done flooding his mind, the understanding of the pressure that had knocked him backwards, he suddenly wished that he could say goodbye. He wished that he could share it - ice cream that dripped over their fingers and made them sticky, a shared look over a campfire, a sick little boy in bed, and two men in their work clothes sitting under fireworks and deciding that this was how they’d be _for as long as they both shall live._

He wished in that instant he could ease the unbearable pain that would last after he was lost, speak the words before he fell that he could suddenly remembering thinking last time, that were just as true now as then. 

_It’s not your fault._

But the air outside was cold and the window’s ledge was hard at the small of his back and he could feel the echo of rock and ice, his body remembered the vibration of the train, the lurch of weightlessness, the face that shrunk above him with a cry that followed him down, down.

He closed his eyes, he didn’t want to see Steve’s face shrinking from him, didn’t want to see the trees come up around him as he fell, didn’t want to hear the ocean or look at the sky one last time, if he shut his eyes, it would all be over before he could fear it, a split second, two lives lived - he toppled backward, the sound of his feet scuffing the floor, of his body hitting the wooden frame, of the fabric curtains fluttering around him, and he…

_-didn’t fall!_

For a moment, he didn’t understand the harsh points of contact in the middle of his chest, or the sudden tension across the backs of his shoulders, halfway down his spine, or the sudden, jarring halt with a hard line of pain across the small of his back, but then he looked, his eyes opened and there, above him, was the wide, black, cloudless sky, and Steve. When he looked down, Steve’s fist, wrapped in the fabric of his shirt, was pressed with knuckles hard against Bucky’s chest, eyes bright and burning, breathing hard and staring at him, his shield held over their heads like an umbrella.

“Not this time,” he said, gritted his teeth, yanked Bucky back inside, and hauled Bucky up against him. “Never again, Buck- James-”

Bucky kissed him.

He didn’t even think about it, he just grabbed Steve’s wrist where Steve’s still holding on, and crashed their mouths together, and Steve tasted exactly like he always had. 

The room was empty, the fire back in the fireplace, but the sheets were strewn about, the door slamming closed even as they kissed, and Steve wrenched himself away and turned his head back to look at it.

“We’re gettin’ outta here,” Steve breathed when they parted, and then grabbed Bucky’s hand as he turned them both. “You and me, and everybody else. We’re leaving.”

“Hey,” Bucky said, and Steve turned back and looked at him. 

Bucky kissed him again, brief and hard, a promise. 

“Together,” he said. “Whatever happens, we stay together.”

“You’re damn right,” Steve muttered.

~

The bedroom door was balsa wood to the shield, and Bucky could keep up with him. Even barefoot on the hardwood, it wasn’t hard to run.

Each time they passed a door, it opened, and smoke began to fill the corridor of the West wing. Each fire, James saw as each door opened, was lit, and in each room, by the fireplace, a figure stood, the same figure every time.

“We gotta warn the others,” Steve said, and blew the next door to pieces with the strength of his body. “They’ll be asleep.”

And they came out onto the landing, at the top of the stairs. When they looked back, there was a figure standing at the end of the corridor, and Bucky looked at Steve, at a loss. The flickering yellow light of fire was lighting the carpets outside every room of the West wing, and Bucky didn’t know if they could reach everyone before the fire spread. 

He looked at Steve, standing there with the shield, next to the stairs, and the-

The gong!

“Steve!” he yelled, and tore it off the wall.

“Yeah,” Steve said and, together, they ran from the figure, to start warning the rest of the house.

***

Captain had been distressed but still able to follow orders, and he ran at Monty’s heel as they left the house through the library, because it was the nearest door to them, and because the doors were mostly glass, so they wouldn’t hold up to the shield.

Alpine, who had been asleep on the couch therein, panicked immediately, but Steven went for him without hesitation, and they all of them knew the scratches would heal.

They all of them ran, tumbling out onto the terrace, past the balustrade, onto the lawn, where the blaze lit the dewy grass in flickering orange and yellow. 

And when they gathered there, all looking first at one another to be sure of their number, they turned to the house, and the great blaze that consumed the master bedroom. 

There, in the window, stood a figure - not Miss Carter, but something else, half made of smoke - in the bright orange square of flame. James knew her, had seen her before somewhere, and he understood a moment later. 

“Jesus fucking Christ, it’s Lilith de Winter,” Monty said beside them, and so it was.

Lilith, whose face had watched his arrival from the lodge. Lilith, from the portrait that James had copied. Lilith who had driven Olivia mad amid a fire. Lilith who had died with her husband in a fire she was rumored to have set herself.

It all made so much sense. 

Bucky wanted to tear out his hair - it all made so much _sense._

Steve all but begging Howard in Monte - _I’m asking you because you_ know _what I’ve been though, and you know what James has been through, I’m asking you._

All of them accepting him instantly, hiding stories from their time at war. 

Thompson, from the SSR, had told him not to tell the master of the house, and James had gone straight to Monty, who _loathed_ Thompson, because _Monty was_ the master of the house and James had had no idea.

The mocking figure that called him de Winter, that had known they were Barnes and Rogers. The voice on the telephone - not Becky, but _Bucky._

And Steve, always one constant. What’s to forgive, James had asked, and Steve answered, _More than you know._

Lilith, too, made more sense than he wanted to admit. She had led him from place to place, planted fear after fear, tried to pull his tentative new world out from under him. He hadn’t been losing his mind, he hadn’t been wrong about the what he’d seen, what he’d been told. 

And the Innovation Consul. In England for transportation to a conference, to be flown to the continent, the same as Howard. Aissey was AC, was Peggy Carter, and-

“Zola,” he said, and Steve turned next to him sharply, looking at him. Bucky stared up at the flames. “You had a flight to catch.”

“I killed him,” Steve answered. 

“What?” Dugan said, but Bucky didn’t dare hope, even as the others started celebrating. “For real!?”

“Peggy, Sousa and Thompson were the escort.” Steve told him. “I was the pilot.”

The pilot, Jesus Christ. The blur in the photograph on the front of the paper.

“Tell me you didn’t crash another fucking plane,” Bucky said, unable to find it in himself to smile, to make a joke out of it. 

“Not with me on board,” Steve answered. “I flew us out over the channel and jumped with a chute.”

“And how do you know they crashed?” Bucky asked. “How can you be sure they weren’t picked up?”

There was a long, palpable silence and, after so long that the hair rose on Bucky’s neck, he looked at Steve. Steve was staring straight back at him, eyes aglow with the reflected inferno. 

“They were sleeping. I flew them around for an hour or so - they didn’t know where they were going so they didn’t know what to look out the window for - and once they were out I broke every neck on that plane before I left,” he said.

It took Bucky’s breath away for a moment. All dead then. No exceptions, no surprises.

“Better than they deserve,” Bucky answered and, to his surprise, Steve’s eyes shone brighter, liquid.

“I woke him,” he murmured, and James’ breath caught.

That monster, that small, unassuming, evil little man. Steve had been there, stood before him - in all the world and all its horrors, Steve had stood face to face with _him_ and, in so doing, had done the one thing Bucky would never have let him do. Bucky would rather have died than be in Zola’s clutches again, and still he would have taken Steve’s place instead.

“I let him see,” Steve said, his voice raw. “I let him see the others, I let him panic. And I showed him my face. I told him we had you, you were safe with me, that I was doing it for you.” He lifted his chin, set his jaw, and wetness drew a line down his cheek. “I told him what was going to happen to him and he died afraid and alone. I sent him to hell for you.”

Bucky stared at him, at the strength of Steve’s jaw and the burning emotion in his eyes, the unsteadiness of his lower lip. 

“He can’t hurt you any more,” Steve told him. “He can’t hurt you _any more.”_

And Bucky stared at him. Steven de Winter, who’d loved him so dearly he’d felt his own ghost in Steven’s heart. Steve Rogers, who’d taken from this earth the only thing James truly feared more than death. Stevie. His Stevie.

“Good,” Bucky told him. 

And Steve released all his breath at once like he’d been holding it for hours, shoulders sagging as he hung his head. Bucky pulled him forward, brought Steve’s head to his shoulder and settled his own on Steve’s. Of course, he thought, of course. Steve must have been frightened, must have been terrified, that Bucky wouldn’t understand. That Bucky wouldn’t remember or, worse, that he would, and that he’d see a murderer and not a savior. 

Bucky held him, and stared up at the flames. 

What did he have to fear now, with Steve here, by his side? One wouldn’t fear a weapon more than those who’d wield it. For the only person to be feared more than the man who could lay ruin to the world was the man for whom he’d lay ruin to it.

“I love you,” Steve was saying. “I love you. More than anything else in the world, I love you.”

And he buried his face in Bucky’s neck, held Bucky tight, breathing hard, shaking against him. Bucky didn’t close his eyes. He watched the house burn and, in the window of the master bedroom, the black smoke figure of Lilith de Winter stood and watched for a moment, and then 

slowly

turned

Away.


	13. Epilogue

“How’s he doing?” Bucky asks, leaning over Steve’s shoulder.

He has abandoned his writing for the afternoon - he has no imminent deadlines - and sees that Monty’s neat cursive covers the three pieces of paper, double-sided, that Steve holds. 

“Renovations are coming on a treat, apparently,” Steve says. “We’ll have to invite him out here some time.”

Sure as hell neither of them are ever going back there anyhow. If the first cleansing didn’t take, why the hell would they believe a second would?

“Monty’s a braver man that I am,” Bucky says, and Steve waves the papers in the air before he puts them down.

“Smarter’n both of us, more like,” he says. “He’s bought a place in the village. They’re going to open the house up to visitors full time instead, nobody’s going to get the chance to stay long enough to piss Lilith off.”

Bucky stretches his arm and arches his back, and Steve looks up over his shoulder at him. 

“I don’t know,” Bucky says. “Who’s smarter - the guy who’s living in a cottage with a dog or the man living out of hotels with his young man on the side?”

Steve wrinkles his nose.

“You have got to stop saying that,” he says as he puts the letter down, tucks it under the Venetian glass paperweight he bought as a replacement for Bucky’s old birthday present, and stands. 

“Why?” Bucky answers, unbuttoning his shirt as he back towards the bedroom of their suite. “It’s true, isn’t it? If the first Mr de Winter was your husband, and he clearly isn’t dead-”

Steve snatches out with one hand trying to grab him, but Bucky leans away just enough that he misses, and continues the game. 

“-then what does that make me?” 

“Everything,” Steve answers instantly, and the room is bright with sunlight, the waves crashing against the shore just across the street. 

The weather in Monte is wonderful this time of year and they paid extra for the view. 

“Why don’t you show me?” Bucky answers, sauntering because he was always good at it and, five-four or six-two, Steve’s eyes have always darkened that way when he does.

And so Steve shows him.

Steve shows him, and James reads his published works to Steve while Steve paints pictures for his clients, and they take long walks in fine weather, or spend whole days in bed regardless of the weather, and they dine in hotel dining halls and sleep in hotel beds, and watch the sunlight glisten on the sea. 

And sometimes, though he wakes gasping, safe and sound in Steve’s arms, though Steve shows him at every opportunity he is loved beyond measure, there are nights he dreams.

He dreams of blood and gunfire, dreams of failing lungs in a frail young boy, he dreams of falling, falling, and he dreams that he stands in that room as the flames consume him, pulling for all his worth at the handles of the doors as the black figure draws near to him, desperate to escape:

Some nights, he dreams he goes to ‘Midwood’ again, 

but he cannot leave, for the doors are locked, 

and the way is barred to him.


	14. Prologue

_New York, Summer, 1946._

There’s a flash of white and red that she dismisses as a passing car when she opens her door and there is no-one on the pavement when she walks down the garden path to her mailbox.

In her mail is a letter, which must have been put there in the twenty seconds it took her to put on her shoes between her seeing the mailman deliver and her reaching the mail, which is blank aside from the word ‘Peg.’ 

She recognizes the handwriting for his but doesn’t believe it, or the second half of the code phrase written across the top. 

If she’d said ‘Granny’s feeling much better,’ that is how he would have answered.

_Then you have to tell me what tonic she uses._

_083.377708, 010.290017  
075.363471, 103.604823 _

_End paperclip._

_Love always._

They’re coordinates to two points. One in the Arctic, one in Siberia.

She picks up the phone, and calls Howard.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Happy halloween! :D And may we never have another one like it. As Seth Meyers says, stay safe, wash your hands, we love you.
> 
> Many thanks to Shine, whose idea became the punchline, and to Msilverstar, who helped me rectify my mistakes ♥
> 
> The reason the 1890 portrait appeared familiar to Bucky is because it’s of Anna Craddock and James Aloysius Falsworth, Monty’s parents. He’s recognizing the family resemblance. 
> 
> In Chapter 2 Bucky knocks over a vase of flowers. Pink camellias mean ‘Longing for you’ and pink carnations mean ‘I’ll never forget you.’
> 
> In the woods in Chapter 7, Steve says “Pal, I proposed to you on the, uh, room in the hotel in Monte, didn’t I?” He’s about to say “on the roof” but redirects.
> 
> Agent Jack Thompson asks Bucky not to tell “the master of the house” he’s here. James assumes he means Steve and says nothing - Thompson actually means Monty, the master of the house, whom James tells almost immediately. Monty hates Thompson but Steve is going to work with him, Sousa and Peggy. This is why Monty has such a strong reaction to Thompson being on the property but Steve shows mainly interest.
> 
> When Steve was arguing with Monty, just before he caught Bucky eavesdropping but let him go, he mentions “goddamn paperclip, and if they think…” which is in reference to Project Paperclip. James mistakes this conversation for Steve asserting his authority about his and James’ relationship.
> 
>  **Spoilery summary:** James meets Steven de Winter in Monte Carlo in 1948 following a stint as valet to Howard Stark. James has very few memories of the war due to his capture and torture. He and Steven fall in love and go to Steven's stately home in England, where odd things begin to happen, and Steven acts strangely. James feels that he'll never live up to Steven's wife - a thought reinforced by the housekeeper, Ms Carter. It eventually transpires that the house belongs to Monty Falsworth and is haunted - Ms Carter was really the ghost of one of Monty's ancestors, Lilith de Winter, who committed a murder/suicide for the shame and anger of her husband's debauchery by locking herself and her husband in the master bedroom and setting fire to the house.  
> her ghost drove other queer residents insane, and would not tolerate Steve and Bucky's 'unnatural' relationship. Steve was so cagey around Bucky because reminding him of the war had previously triggered brain damage. HOWEVER because of the serum administered in Zola's factory, Bucky's brain has been able to heal, and they are able to exist in the same space. In the meantime, Steve has been given a private mission by the SSR to kill Arnim Zola and other Nazi scientists brought over in operation paperclip. This all transpires to have been set into motion by Endgame Steve, who went back in time and got a message to Peggy in 1946.


End file.
